Fictive Kin
by LindaO
Summary: The Chaos AU collapses into true chaos as Finch and Reese juggle returning street rats, scandal-obsessed reporters, Will Ingram's new family, Carter's renewed questions about their work, Moss' pursuit of would-be terrorists – and the Numbers, which never stop coming. Casefic, S2 before Godmode. In the Chaos AU after "Crying Wolf".
1. Chapter 1

The first voice on the recorded phone call was male, tenor, and had a clipped, precise British accent.

"The job is done," he said. "We'll secure the hardware by noon on Monday. When would you like to take delivery?"

The second voice was either electronically modulated or entirely computer-generated. "Tuesday," it said. "Evening. I'll contact you with an exact time."

"Why the delay?"

"Because I want to make sure no one it tracking it."

"We've taken precautions."

"I'll contact you."

The call terminated abruptly.

* * *

Nick Malone – who had, in another life, been FBI Special Agent Nicholas Donnelly – played the recording one more time. He checked the time stamp while he listened. It was just over three hours old. He ran both telephone numbers, without much enthusiasm. The results came back precisely as expected: Both ends of the call had been made from burner phones.

He considered for a moment, then typed a brief message to the Special Agent in Charge in New York City. Brian Moss would have no idea where the message came from, but he'd been conditioned by now to accept the information as unquestionably valid.

Donnelly wished, for one brief moment, that someone in the Den had been feeding anonymous tips to _him_ while he was pursuing the Man in the Suit. It would have been tremendously helpful. But he understood now that Asena – the Source, the Oracle, the All-Seeing Bitch, or whatever else his co-workers chose to call the all-seeing computer system – was far more interested in protecting John Reese than it was in helping Donnelly apprehend him.

Reese worked for Harold, and Harold was Asena's creator.

And now, in a very real sense, Donnelly worked for Asena. Which made him and Reese – well, co-conspirators, he supposed. Co-defendants. Unwitting and unwilling cohorts.

Secret brothers in very secret arms.

Donnelly had been aware of the connection for quite some time, but he'd managed to hold it at the periphery of his awareness. He'd pretended that he and his long-time quarry were not now on the same team. He'd ignored the obvious in a studious and careful manner. Ignored reality in a way he almost never allowed himself to do.

That willful ignorance was no longer available to him. They had a common purpose now. The protection of Asena – what Reese called the Machine – superseded all the differences between them.

According to Donnelly's boss, the Machine was more than capable of hiding itself from the thieves who were trying to trace it. And since Reese hadn't made any attempt to find them yet, it seemed that Harold the Creator shared that belief. Tracking the thieves to the would-be terrorists was tantamount, of course, but the Machine itself was in no danger.

But Reese didn't know about this other person, the one who used the electronic voice. The person who had hired the man who had hired the thieves.

Donnelly shook his head. They might not be aware of the third-layer threat, but Asena certainly was. She'd invisibly amended his search terms so that the call was brought directly to his attention, seemingly though normal channels. She knew he'd turn it over to Moss. She was using him to protect herself.

Asena's programming, he thought, not for the first time, must be unbelievably intricate. She was an independent entity in his mind now. An artificial intelligence, of course, but so seemingly real that he'd fallen into the habit of thinking of her as a person. A real person.

A friend.

And most critically, a friend who helped him do the most important work of his life. The most important work in the world.

Of course he would do everything he could to protect her.

If that put him in uncomfortable alliance with his former quarry – well, things changed. His whole life had changed since he'd arrested John Reese. Nicholas Donnelly was dead, and Nick Malone had a new name, a new face, a new history. A new job. A new purpose.

The only important thing that remained of his old life was the woman.

_You might as well admit it, _Donnelly finally let himself think._ The biggest thing that you and the Man in the Suit have in common is not the Machine, or Harold, or even saving the world. It's the woman. It's Christine Fitzgerald. _

She thought Donnelly was dead. So did Reese, for that matter. They were Harold's confidantes, his partners, but apparently he hadn't seen fit to share the details of Donnelly's the rescue and relocation with them. It was better that way, anyhow. He couldn't have gone back to Christine without putting her in more danger than her associations already put her in. And whatever they'd had, friendship or love or something in between, it was over now.

Except it wasn't. Not for him.

If Donnelly couldn't be there to protect her, he was grudgingly glad the Reese could be. The Man in the Suit had skills, intelligence, and a ferocious devotion to the people he cared about. He'd take care of Christine, for as long as he lived.

Which, given his chosen profession, might not be very long.

Donnelly shook his head. The woman was safe with Reese for now. He needed to forget about her and save the Machine.

* * *

Joss Carter looked around the command center uneasily. She was early and it was still quiet; only half of the dozen or so agents and officers assigned to the new task force had arrived. Moss had only been there long enough to start the coffee brewing and find some cups.

The last time she'd been in this room, Agent Donnelly had been in charge, and he'd come within about half a minute of arresting his Man in the Suit.

Also, Joss had come within an inch of shooting Lionel Fusco in the men's room.

A lot had changed since then. Donnelly was dead. His investigation had been concluded, wrongly, and closed. The FBI was no longer pursing the Man in the Suit. She and Fusco had become truly partners, on both sides of the law. Reese had become much less violent than in the first days she'd known him.

She still felt guilty about Donnelly's death. She hadn't pulled the trigger and neither had John. But his pursuit of Reese, and her repeated efforts to derail it, had put him directly in Kara Stanton's gunsites. She had some responsibility, no matter how she looked at it, and it weighed on her.

Now Brian Moss had taken over the dead agent's command center.

She wasn't sure she was ready to deal with it.

Moss walked across the too-big space and handed her a mug of coffee. "Thanks for being here, Detective."

"I was tasked," she answered, not harshly. "Kinda didn't have a choice."

The agent looked mildly unhappy. "If you'd rather not help with this, I can have you assigned back."

She made a show of looking around. Whatever Moss and his superiors were up to, John and Harold might need her in the middle of it. "No, I don't mind a chance of pace. Just kinda curious. I'm a Homicide detective. Not sure how I ended up on a theft task force."

"You're one of the best cops I know. And I need the best right now."

Carter nodded and sipped her coffee. _Not good enough to join the FBI, though_, she thought, rather bitterly. _Because I dated the wrong man. Briefly. _She made her expression stay even. Moss was clearly trying to make it up to her; she genuinely doubted the final decision had been his. _Let it go, Joss._ "You want to tell me what this is about?"

Moss glanced around. "When everybody gets here. Shouldn't be long." He gestured. "There's donuts, if you want."

"I'm good." She took her coffee to one of the computer stations and sat down. It was the same station, she realized belatedly, where she'd sat the night they had John pinned down in the hotel downtown. She made herself take a deep breath. _Well, Donnelly, at least your little fortress of technology's getting put to good use._

Fusco came in, nodded to her and headed for the coffee pot.

She was ridiculously glad to see him.

* * *

John Reese woke to voices, muffled behind the closed door. For a split second he was in a prison cell in Colombia and they were coming for him again, for another round of 'interrogation'. His pulse picked up. But he calmed as soon as he was fully awake. He knew where he was. Safe and comfortable in his sister's spare room.

He let that whole realization lay on him like a heavy quilt for a moment. He'd had partners and teammates and friends. Girlfriends and lovers. But a sister was something brand new. Something he'd never even considered that he might want. It fit, though. Everything he'd felt for Christine Fitzgerald, every moment he'd had with her from the first time they'd met, all fit into that description. Bastard children of despair, she'd called the two of them. She was right, he supposed. It still felt good.

The room was bright. Even with the heavy curtains drawn over the single window, light peeked around the edges. He turned his head and glanced at the clock. It was after nine, way later than he usually woke. But he hadn't slept much in the past few days, and he'd sat up very late with Christine the night before. Also, he'd been in a fight and lost a little blood. So a late morning was in order.

Once he thought about his arm, it became to ache. Not too bad, maybe a four on the pain scale. He'd had worse. Much worse. But there were pain meds to be had; no point in suffering.

He sat up slowly, listening to the voices. One man, two women, none of them talking loud or too fast. Good. It came to him that he'd half-woken before. That he'd heard voices and he'd hovered on the edge of sleep, waiting for Christine to call his name or knock on his door. She hadn't, so he'd fallen back asleep. He'd probably heard the door, too, but since there was no threat evident, the part of his brain that always kept watch hadn't bothered to wake him.

It had left that to his bladder, apparently, which now insisted on reminding him that it currently held most of the three beers he'd drunk the night before. It was definitely time to get out of bed.

The women's voices resolved a bit. One of them was Christine. The other was the voice of her computer. She called it Zelda and she treated it like her roommate. Reese smiled wryly, remembering Finch's face the first time he'd encountered it.

The man's voice was too low to catch his words, but Reese recognized the cadence of Finch's speech.

He stood up and stretched slowly. Surprising that Harold was here at this hour, since he had pretty obviously assumed that John and Christine had become lovers the night before. Reese had thought he'd do everything he could to leave them alone for the morning. So perhaps there was a new Number. But if that was the case, they would have woken him.

His phone was on the table beside the bed. The screen flashed, but it made no sound. He picked it up. There was a message from Finch, but it had been sent in silent mode. No urgency, then, so likely not a Number.

He tapped the screen. CALL ME AT YOUR CONVENIENCE, the text read, BUT BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE APARTMENT. It had been sent very early in the morning, about the time he and Christine were adopting each other. It had also been sent to her.

So she'd woken up first, seen the message, called Finch and, hopefully, explained the new nature of their relationship to him. He was going to be crushed, Reese guessed. Harold had had such hopes for them.

But aside from Harold's disappointment, John was satisfied with their decision. It felt altogether right.

Whatever Finch was here about, it wasn't urgent or he would have made John's phone chirp.

Unless he'd decided to handle it on his own so he wouldn't interrupt their evening. Which would be foolish and dangerous, but it was absolutely something Finch would do.

Reese shook his head in annoyance. Whatever it was, Harold was here now and apparently safe.

He needed a piss, and some aspirin, and some coffee.

He opened the bedroom door, waved vaguely toward the living room, and walked across the hall to the bathroom.

* * *

Zoe Morgan crossed her legs at the knee and kicked her foot languidly. It showed off her calf, not too obviously. The man noticed how shapely her leg was. He wasn't too obvious, either, but she was good at reading the signs.

"I appreciate your position," the editor said, dragging his eyes up to her face. "But you can't expect us not to cover news like this."

"Celebrity gossip," she said dismissively. "I remember when the _New York Journal_ was an actual newspaper."

"If the NYPD looks the other way when a man assaults a young woman because he'd very wealthy …"

"That's not what happened," Zoe said firmly. She picked up the newspaper from his desk. "And that's certainly not how you're covering it."

Glen sat back. "If Dr. Ingram wants to tell us his side of the story, we'd be glad to print it."

"Dr. Ingram doesn't want his picture in the paper. Or his story. Or his friends, or his relationships. He wants to be left alone."

"He's young, he's a billionaire, he's dating a Carson, and he's got a tragic backstory. And apparently a violent temper. How can you expect us to pass that up?"

Zoe dropped the paper dismissively. "Wouldn't you rather write about Logan Pierce? He's a lot more scandalous."

The editor shook his head. "He's old news. And frankly, he's kind of a drama whore. People are tired of him."

"Whereas Ingram is fresh meat."

"Honestly? Yes."

"Will Ingram works for Doctors Without Borders, providing emergency aid in the worst disaster areas and war zones in the world."

"I know his story."

"Then you know he's a good man." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward; Glen's eyes flicked down to her cleavage, then back up. "And I know that this reporter of yours, this Maxine Angelis, already got at least one other good man killed."

The editor had the decency to go a little pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about Christopher Zambrano. You remember, Angelis outed him as the head of HR? Wrongly?" She tapped her perfect nails on the desktop. "It's funny. I would have thought a big lawsuit might come out of that mess, but I haven't heard about one. Yet."

Glen took a long breath. She had him, thanks to the inside information Harold had provided. At least he had the good sense not to argue with her. "What is it you want, Miss Morgan?"

Zoe nodded in satisfaction and began to lay out her terms.

* * *

In addition to Carter and Fusco, Moss had requested two detectives from the Burglary Unit of Major Cases, and one from the Computer Crimes Unit. Joss had only met Troy Treo a few times; he was young and very ambitious. His partner, Avery Mason, was a stout African-American man with distinguished gray hair; he was two years from retirement, and he'd forgotten more about the thieves and fences in the city than his young partner would likely ever know.

Her friend Sherri LaBlanca had come from CCU. She and Carter chatted briefly while Moss assembled his own people. In addition to the detectives, he had nine FBI agents.

Donnelly's command center still looked woefully understaffed.

"We're all here," Moss announced. "Let's begin."

He clicked his controller and a street map of the city came up. "As you may have heard, the branch of the First National Bank of Manhattan located in the lobby of the Pulaski Building was robbed early Thursday morning. Detectives Treo and Mason were originally assigned to the case. However, it's now come to our attention that the materials that were stolen from the bank may be significant to national security."

"How so?" LaBlanca asked.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that," Moss answered. "All I can tell you is that it's important that we recover the computer equipment, but it's absolutely _vital_ that we identify the people who stole it. And even more importantly, the people who hired them. As quickly as possible."

"Somebody end up dead?" Mason asked, gesturing to the Homicide detectives.

"No. Not yet, anyhow." Moss gestured to one of the agents. "This is Adam Aviles. He's our tech specialist; I've asked him to work with Detective LaBlanca."

Aviles stood up and took the remote. He clicked and a series of red circles appeared on the map, in a rough circle around the bank. "All of these red spots indicate external cameras that were disabled prior to the robbery. Half of these are NYPD cameras, traffic or pedestrian surveillance. The rest are all privately held. Entrance security, ATM cameras, things like that."

"Multiple platforms," LaBlanca observed.

"And they all went down within five minutes of each other. Between four-oh-five and four-ten Thursday morning."

"Which means," Moss said, "that this robbery was extremely well-planned and well-supported."

"Four o'clock is bar closing time," Fusco offered. "Traffic, drunks and fights tying up a lot of the street units."

Carter nodded. She'd been thinking the same thing. "What'd the inside of the bank look like?"

"Very pro," Mason said.

Troy Treo stood up. "The perps blew the glass on the side exterior door. It was standard reinforced safety glass; they ran a bead around the perimeter and blew it. Neat and quiet."

"No alarms?" Fusco asked.

"They'd all been disabled. Phone lines were down. Not cut. Disabled."

"What about the security cameras inside the bank?" Carter wondered.

"They had two separate feeds," Mason said. "One to the outside, to a centralized monitoring center. The other fed to a security console inside the lobby of the Pulaski Building. Both went down. The security guard said the screens were fine when he went to make his rounds and they were blank when he got back. He went and made a physical check through the lobby door, then called in the alarm."

"There was no one in the bank when he looked?" Fusco asked.

"The site was already clear," Treo confirmed.

"How long was he away from the console?" one of the agents asked.

"Twenty minutes, he says. He says he started at four sharp. The call came in at four-twenty-seven."

"So they cut the alarms, blew the door, got in, took the computers, and got out, all within twenty or twenty-five minutes?" Carter whistled. "That's pretty damn efficient. What exactly did they take?"

Treo consulted his notes. "Ten computer towers. Two server boxes. One laptop. Seven cameras. The camera relay. A port array. A tape back-up device. And a stack of back-up tapes."

"Tracking?" LaBlanca asked.

Aviles shook his head. "Only on the laptop. And that's been recovered already."

"Where?" Carter asked.

"Left on a subway in Brooklyn. No prints, no useful surveillance footage."

Moss took the clicker back and flashed through some slides until he came to a series of the interior of the bank. Except for the empty places where the computer equipment should have been and the glass missing from the door, there was remarkably little damage.

"How'd they get at the cameras?" another agent asked.

"Grappling hooks and lines," Mason answered. He gestured and Moss clicked forward until he came to a shot of a small grappling hook sunk into the wall. A slender black rope still dangled from it. There were faint footprints on the wall where someone had climbed up. The empty camera bracket hung mutely on the wall.

"We get a brand on the hooks or line?" Carter asked.

"Military issue," Treo answered. "Might be surplus. Might be someone brought it home with him."

They batted around ideas for a while. They all agreed that the team had been at least three and probably more men. Mason and Treo knew of some teams to look at, and the FBI had a list of their own. Nothing, of course, said that the team hadn't been brought in from the outside. Moss was able to tell them that the team had been hired by a middleman who was planning to deliver the computers to an end buyer on Monday. He was very emphatic that they needed to identify that final buyer, but he again declined to say why. Carter knew, of course; Fusco had told her, in confidence, about the Bad Wolf incident he and Moss had witnessed with Christine Fitzgerald. But Moss wasn't talking, and from the look of it, none of his own agents knew the true reason for the urgency, either.

She listened, but she wandered the room absently. Oddly, she reflected, she missed Donnelly. The scenario Fusco had described – hacked missiles aimed at Manhattan – scared the hell out of her. Moss was competent enough, but she would have been happier to have Donnelly's firm, obsessive hand on the wheel of this particular investigation. Despite their differences, she had had absolutely confidence in him as an agent.

Joss rested her hand on one of the computer towers. This one was cool; she'd strayed from the center of the room, out to where the stations weren't being used. She looked around again. Donnelly's little kingdom, and how he'd reveled in it. She had to smile, remembering how he'd walked into this room that night with just a little strut in his step. There had been some ego behind it, of course. But most of that spring in his step had come from his certainty that he was finally about to catch his elusive the Man in the Suit.

She and Fusco had helped John escape. And indirectly, their actions that night had led to the agent's eventual death.

Carter sighed heavily.

"Something to add, Detective?" Moss called.

She started a little. Her mind had been wandering and Moss had caught her. But there was something here. Something useful …

"Computer towers," she said slowly. "You said they took ten of them."

"And two servers."

She measured the top of the tower with her hand. "So twelve boxes, this big or bigger. Maybe only three men. That's four trips apiece to the car. They had twenty minutes, twenty-five tops. Even if they were parked right outside the door, that's a big portion of their time."

Moss frowned at her. "So they had a cart or something."

Carter nodded. "But a cart, even a little one, plus ten towers, other equipment, three or more men – they had to have a truck. A van, an SUV, something bigger than a sedan."

"That doesn't help us any," Aviles said. "All the cameras on the surrounding streets were disabled. We already said that."

"But they had to _leave_ the surrounding area," LaBlanca said slowly. "They had to drive out of the dark zone."

"There must be two dozen streets."

"True," Carter said. "But we know they had a large-capacity vehicle, and that they were gone by four twenty-seven."

Sherri sat down at one of the consoles. "How much access do we have?" she asked.

"All of it," Aviles answered. "Anything we need." He sat down next to her and they set to work.

Carter nodded to herself. As with Donnelly's manhunt, this operation had access to virtually all the surveillance in the city. It would help.

"We could still be looking at an awful lot of vehicles," Fusco grumbled.

"Yes," Moss agreed. "But at least we have something to look for." He turned to the other detectives. "Let's get your list of possibilities ready to cross-reference."

"You got it," Mason said. He sat down at a keyboard of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

There were, naturally, clean towels, a new toothbrush, a disposable razor and a plastic comb laid out for him. Reese brushed his teeth, splashed his face, and helped himself to some ibuprofen. He ran wet hands over his hair and combed it, but his irrepressible cowlick resisted, of course. When he couldn't stall any more, he went out to the living room.

Harold and Christine were together in her dining room/computer center. He was sitting at the keyboard, but his hands were folded in his lap. Christine was on her feet. She had her virtual keyboard up; light emitted from an overhead projector and followed two sensors she wore as bracelets, keeping a keyboard of light under her fingertips wherever she moved. Her fingers flew. Her gestured were fast and precise, almost angry.

Finch watched her work, but did not comment. Reese wondered if the woman realized what a compliment the genius's silence was.

"Good morning," he said.

Finch looked at him. His face remained almost expressionless, but Reese had been with him enough now to recognize the faint traces of emotion: Concern when his eyes flicked to the bandage on his arm; relief that the injury was apparently minor; annoyance that he'd been sleeping in the guest room. Finally the tiny expressions settled on wry understanding. "Mr. Reese."

Christine smiled wryly and gestured toward the board. "You need to see this. I'll get you coffee." She walked to the kitchen. "How's the arm?" She brought him coffee, kissed him on the cheek.

"A little sore. Not bad." He sipped the coffee. It tasted like life.

"I thought you said your injury was insignificant," Finch groused.

"It is now." He took a longer drink of coffee. "New Number?"

"Not yet. But it may lead to one."

John looked at the newspaper article that was displayed on the big screen and swore under his breath.

At the top was a fuzzy picture of the front of Nathan Ingram's old loft with the big half-moon window. There was an ambulance at one side of the photo. In the middle of the frame, two paramedics carried a stretcher down the stone steps. The head of the gurney was up and Christine's face was visible. Will Ingram was at her side.

The picture was black and white, but there were big dark spots that were obviously blood on both of them.

Beneath the photo was a huge headline: BLOODY BRAWL AT BILLIONAIRE'S LOFT? Below that, in print half that size, the headline continued: INGRAM HEIR IN FIGHT WITH MYSTERY WOMAN.

The newspaper was _The New York Journal_, and article was written by Maxine Angelis.

Reese closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, drank down half of the mugful of coffee, and skimmed the whole article.

_No police report has been filed in regards to an incident earlier this year which resulted in an unknown woman being hospitalized … _

He was absently aware that Christine had resumed her work on the keyboard. He confirmed his first impression: If she'd had a real keyboard, she'd have been pounding on it.

The article had about a paragraph's worth of real facts: The date and the location, Ingram's name and background, Julie Carson's name. The rest was composed of vague implications and supposition. The gist of it was that Ingram had assaulted the woman and the police had covered it up because he was a billionaire. It also suggested that despite the anticipated announcement of his engagement to Julie Carson, (who was, of course, also very wealthy) the injured woman was his mistress. It was all very carefully phrased, scandalous without being quite libelous.

Maxine Angelis was very good at staying just this side of the line.

"Where'd she get the picture?" he asked when he was done.

"Working on it," Christine answered.

He glanced at Finch again. The genius still had his hands folded, and it was clear to Reese now that he was actively restraining himself from reaching for a keyboard. "Miss Morgan," he reported, "is meeting with Miss Angelis' editor this morning. The story has already been deleted from their website."

"Has it." Reese wasn't surprised. "Are Will and Julie somewhere safe?"

"Yes."

He studied the photo again. "From the angle, this is from across the street and up high."

"Uh-huh," Christine said. She tapped a virtual key and a map came up on the opposite screen. The building that housed the loft glowed green in the center of it. An array of red x's dotted the surrounding streets. Reese assumed they were cameras. A number of them already sported yellow check marks on top of them. Half a dozen remained.

"They haven't identified you?"

"Not yet," Finch said. "But I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

That was undeniable. Although Christine was protective of her privacy, she worked with the public and the police extensively. It wouldn't take Angelis long to find someone who would identify the woman in the picture. And then things would get really interesting. "Maybe make some kind of statement, get out ahead of it?"

"Hell no," Christine answered flatly.

Finch unfolded his hands and fussed with his jacket. "If we're fortunate, Miss Morgan will be able to contain this matter to this single story." He raised one eyebrow significantly.

Reese knew what he was thinking. Zoe Morgan could be very persuasive. But Maxine Angelis could be very stubborn. And she seemed to be obsessed with Will Ingram. It was a toss-up, in his mind – unless Zoe had something to use as leverage on Angelis or her editor, which was a very real possibility. Still, too close to call.

Finch was preparing for the worst, but for the moment he let Christine dwell in happy denial.

John finished his coffee, went to the kitchen, and made a second cup. By the time he got back two more cameras were checked off. "I'll make us some breakfast," he announced. "And then I'll ask Zubec to send up some empty boxes."

Christine's fingers paused in mid-air. "If we're going to cut up the body, we've got a vacuum sealer downstairs that would be a lot neater."

John shook his head. "When they find out who you are, you don't want to be here. The new place is ready to go anyhow."

She stared at him for a very long moment. He stared right back. "You're not moving any boxes," she stated flatly. "You'll rip out your stitches."

Reese caught the expression of utter surprise on Finch's face, just for an instant. It was gratifying. "I'm sure we can round up some boys to help."

She nodded and turned her attention back to her keyboard of light. "Gotta be one of these two," Christine finally announced.

Harold stood up and looked. "Both traffic cameras."

"There's a leak in the department," Reese said without surprise. "Call Carter, see what she can find out."

"I'm afraid our detective friends won't be able to help us," Finch answered. "They've both been assigned to Agent Moss' task force investigating the burglary at the bank."

"Why Carter?"

"She is a highly effective investigator," Finch answered. "And I think we can safely assume Agent Moss is trying to get back into her good graces."

"Huh." Reese looked at the map again, but it didn't tell him anything new. "What about your friend at CCU?"

"Also on the task force," Finch answered before Christine could.

"I know some other people over there," she countered. "I'll make some calls."

John went and looked in the refrigerator. It was more precisely organized than anything he'd seen since boot camp. "Eggs?"

"Sure."

"Finch?"

"If you don't mind."

He found a skillet in the immaculately organized cupboard and set to cooking breakfast.

* * *

None of Maxine Angelis' regular sources were any help. Even inside the police department, cops who were usually friendly seemed cool and denied that they recognized the injured woman in the picture. It was frustrating. But it further convinced the reporter that there had been a crime and that it was being covered up.

She put out all her feelers. She sent texts, voice mails, or e-mails to everyone she could think of, even her competitors. While she waited for some response, she went to the loft that had formerly belonged to Nathan Ingram.

She wouldn't be allowed inside, of course. Ingram and his girlfriend, Julie Carson, both knew her by sight, and she was sure they didn't want to talk to her. Instead, she walked around the neighborhood. Most of the buildings were residential. There was a restaurant at the end of the street, but no one on the staff recognized the woman in the picture. At the wine shop at the other end of the street, she got the same response.

When she stepped out of the shop, there was a beat cop strolling past. He was big and beefy, with red cheeks and strawberry-blond hair. Except for his accent, he would have looked as at home in Ireland as in New York.

He looked at her fixedly. "Help you, Miss?"

Angelis stared back at him. "Excuse me?"

"You look lost."

"Um … no. Not really."

"Just waiting for someone, then?"

"Something like that." It was very polite police harassment, but it was definitely harassment. She pulled her phone out. "Do you know the woman in this picture?" she asked.

The cop refused to look at the screen. "Nope. Never seen her."

"You didn't even look."

"I think you need to move along, Miss."

It occurred to Angelis, belatedly, that the cop might not be hassling her because of Ingram specifically, but because this quiet little neighborhood was home to a number of very wealthy people. On a whim, she asked, "Did you know Nathan Ingram?"

His eyes flicked toward the loft Maxine had been watching. "Can't say as I did, no."

She'd run out of small talk. She was going to have to leave. And then, miraculously and loudly, a savior arrived in a white sports car. Maxine and the cop both turned to look at it as the driver power-slid it into a parking spot directly in front of the building. Two black SUVs followed the car, more sedately, and before the driver got out, there were men in dark suits and dark glasses securing the area.

"Logan Pierce," Angelis breathed. She patted the cop on the arm. "Excuse me."

She crossed the street as the young billionaire reached the front steps. "Excuse me," she called to him. "Mr. Pierce?"

The Men in Black moved toward her, but Pierce paused and held them back with a wave. "Do I know you?"

"Maxine Angelis. _New York Journal_. Can I talk to you?"

His eyes narrowed; he looked unhappy. "What?"

He was standing one step above her on the stairs. Maxine started to move up, then didn't; he seemed to enjoy his superior posture and she was willing to take any advantage she could. "Do you live in this building?"

"No."

"But you own space here?"

Pierce sighed, clearly bored.

"Do you know," Maxine continued quickly, "that a woman as almost killed inside this building last month?"

There was the faintest spark of interest in his expression now. "So?"

"In the loft that used to belong to Nathan Ingram."

It was subtle, but there was a definite uptick in the young man's interest. He covered it well. "And?"

"I heard that the loft was recently sold. I wondered if you were the new owner. And if you'd been made aware of the incident."

Logan shrugged elegantly. "As long as they didn't leave blood stains on the carpet, I don't really care."

"Could I come in and look around?"

"No." He turned and started up the stairs.

"The woman was with Will Ingram," Maxine called at his back.

Pierce stopped and turned. "And again, so?"

She held her phone out. "I have her picture."

"I don't _care_ about this," Pierce protested. But he walked back down and took the phone. He studied the photo, then handed it back. "I still don't care."

"Do you know her?"

"I've seen her somewhere."

"Do you know her name?"

"No." Logan smirked. "So I haven't slept with her, if that's what you're going to ask me next. If I'd slept with her, I'd remember her name. I'm a gentleman that way."

Angelis blinked. "If I could …"

"Done talking to you," he announced. He gestured, then turned and walked up the rest of the stairs and into the building.

Angelis knew without looking that the MIB were closing on her. She retreated before they got too close.

She knew both the bodyguards and the beefy cop watched her all the way back to her car. She tried to ignore that. She had things to think about.

Logan Pierce had bought Nathan Ingram's loft. He had a very swank apartment already. But real estate was never a bad investment, and Pierce had a reputation for seducing other men's wives – including his former partner's. So perhaps it was an expensive love nest of some kind. That would certainly explain his annoyance with her.

Logan Pierce had bought Nathan Ingram's loft from Will Ingram, roughly at the same time as the assault that she had the picture of. Maybe as a favor among peers? A mutual back-scratching inside the Billionaire Boys' Club? Pierce got the space and Ingram got rid of it – just not quite in time to avoid the scandal.

Or maybe she was reading way too much into it. Logan Pierce was not known for his loyalty. Will Ingram wasn't known for anything except his charity work. She couldn't imagine them being close. On the other hand, they both wore jeans and t-shirts and, limited-edition sports car and expensive addresses aside, neither much looked like the wealthy men they were.

She didn't get it.

She got into her car. As she'd expected, many of the men were still watching her.

Ingram. Pierce. Carson. And the mystery woman.

Maybe the Carson family had persuaded Pierce to buy the loft?

If the Carsons just wanted the property out of his name, though, they had a hundred holding companies that could manage that for them.

Maxine shook her head. She was guessing and it was getting her nowhere. She didn't have many places to look. But she could get at the real estate records. That might not tell her anything, but it was a place to look.

* * *

Before LaBlanca and Aviles had gotten through five minutes of video on half of the cameras, they had identified fifty-three vehicles of interest. The detectives ran the registered owners against their possibles list, and the FBI agents did the same. There were no matches.

"It's going to take all day just to get a list together," Fusco grumbled. "Let's grab a handful and hit the street."

Carter was more than happy to agree.

One of Moss' guys sorted the registered addresses into sectors and Moss divided the detectives and agents into teams to start running them down. "We'll start in Brighton Beach," Carter volunteered.

Fusco raised an eyebrow, but he didn't comment.

"We'll update each list as we get more," LaBlanca promised.

"I'll look forward to it," Joss answered dryly.

They walked out. It was nearly noon, but still chilly. At least it wasn't raining. "Kind of a long drive, isn't it?" Fusco said when they were in Carter's car.

She nodded. "You mind?"

"No. Just curious."

She was quiet until they got onto the main street. "This is going to be a big list, and we need to hustle. So I thought I'd take a little shortcut."

"Shortcut named Elias? You're going the wrong way."

Carter shook her head grimly. "I'm guessing I know someone who can reach him by phone." She glanced at her partner. "You don't have to come along."

"Scarface has no particular beef with me. But I don't see why you think Elias will help us."

"I have an idea how to persuade him."

"Okay." Nothing more. Fusco trusted her.

Donnelly had trusted her. Or at least she thought he had, right until the end. If he could see her now. Carter sighed.

"That was weird," Lionel said. "Being back in that room."

She glanced at him. "Yeah, I was just thinking that."

"I don't know if I ever said, but I'm real glad you didn't shoot me that night."

"Yeah, well. Doesn't mean I won't shoot you next time."

"Thanks, Carter. That makes me feel all warm inside."

Carter chuckled and reached for her phone.

* * *

While Christine was washing up from breakfast – Reese and Finch both knew better than to suggest she leave the dishes for later – her cell phone rang. John picked it up and held it for her, then clicked it on speaker.

"Hello, Will," she called, with her hands still in the soapy water.

"Hey," Ingram answered. "I am really, really sorry."

"Did you give her the picture?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you've got nothing to be sorry about."

John took the frying pan out of her hands and dried it thoroughly.

"Have they found you yet?" Will asked.

"No. Are they chasing you?"

"Half a dozen of them or so. But Skydd says we're okay. We checked into the Coronet. We had to move out of the loft anyhow."

"Good."

"Zoe Morgan just called from the _Journal_. She says she got the story killed."

"Okay."

"She's, um … she's going to come over here for lunch. In the suite, not out in public. Just to talk strategy, make sure we're on the same page. And we were thinking you should probably come, too."

Christine paused. John saw the muscle at the back of her jaw twitch, just once. She looked to him, and then to Harold. Finch shrugged his agreement.

"Please," Ingram continued in her silence. "It's kind of important to me. I know you're not pissed off about the news article, but you should be. And I just …"

"I'll be there about noon," she said, cutting him off. "No seafood of any kind."

"And chocolate dessert. I know."

"You should see if Harold can come, too. Just to keep him in the loop."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I'll call him."

Christine nodded, and Reese clicked off the phone. She looked to Finch. "What's he want?"

"To apologize in person, I imagine," he said. "And with chocolate."

"And what else?"

"I don't know."

She looked at him with open skepticism.

"I _don't_," Finch protested.

"I'll go with you," Reese said. It wasn't precisely an offer, though he tried to make it sound that way.

Christine's skeptical gaze turned on him. "Why?"

"Because it's high time I met Dr. Ingram face-to-face. And it would be better if that happened in a low-stress situation."

"I don't need a bodyguard."

"No, you don't."

"Then why, really?" Her expression shifted to open suspicion. "What are you two up to?"

John took the last spoon out of her hands and dried it. "The engagement-and-birthday-party thing next weekend. The whole Carson family's going to be at the Coronet."

"And?"

"I'd like Mr. Reese to be there," Finch supplied easily. "Just in case any issues arise. It would be simpler to explain his presence if Will is already acquainted with him."

The woman kept looking between them. She didn't believe their explanation, though it was completely reasonable – for something they'd created between them as they spoke. She just couldn't quite see what their real motives were.

Finch's phone rang, and he moved to the living room to talk to Will.

Reese knew that his motive was to stay close to her while she was stressed about the Angelis article. Secondarily, he didn't want to be alone with Finch. He doubted that his partner would ask for an explanation for his change of romantic plans, but Finch's silence could be worse than any interrogation. And finally, if he was completely honest – he liked being with her. _Never had a sister before. Need some time to figure out what that looks like._

Zoe would be there. That would certainly make things interesting.

As to Finch's motivation – he honestly had no more idea than Christine did.

But like Christine, he was certain that the genius was up to something.

She dried her hands and hung the dishtowel up very precisely. "I'm going to shower," she announced, and stalked away.

Which left Reese exactly where he hadn't wanted to be – alone with Finch.

Harold put his phone away and looked at him expectantly.

John shrugged. "She's like a sister to me."

"So I hear." There was absolutely no expression in his voice or on his face.

"I didn't realize until last night," he said by way of apology.

Finch sighed indulgently. "Well. I suppose that can't be helped."

John pivoted the conversation. "What's Ingram want?"

Harold looked at him for a long moment. Finally a little smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He turned and went back to the computer. He did not answer.

Which was not, Reese noted, the same as lying to him.

So Christine was right. One great plan scuttled, Finch had moved seamlessly on to implementing the next one he had for her. If she wasn't going to be John's lover, than he had something else in mind.

He was curious, of course. But he knew that look. Finch wasn't going to tell him a thing.

Reese went to get dressed.


	3. Chapter 3

The hair on the back of Fusco's neck prickled as he and Carter walked through the empty warehouse. He knew Elias would have men watching them; he could practically feel the guns aimed at his back.

Carter didn't look like she was concerned.

Scarface opened the door of the office and stood waiting for them. "Detectives," he said, standing aside to gesture them in. The sneer in his voice cut into the politeness of his greeting.

The warehouse was dusty and grim, but the office was clean and very nicely furnished. The thick oriental rug sank in under Fusco's feet. There was a new-looking couch and two wing-back chairs around a glass coffee table, and a big shiny desk. There were even brocade curtains over the grimy windows that overlooked the warehouse floor. None of it had been neglected in Elias' absence.

There was a conference call phone on the coffee table. Scarface pressed a single button. "They're here, Boss."

"Detectives," Elias said warmly over the phone. "How nice of you to visit. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thanks," Carter said.

"Please, sit down."

The detectives settled onto the couch. It was very cushy. It would be good for naps.

Scarface, Fusco noted, returned to the doorway and stayed there, watchful, exactly as he would have if Elias had actually been in the room. He met Fusco's eyes briefly. They measured each other, deciding who would be faster on the draw if it came to that. Then the man folded his hands over his chest, as relaxed as he ever was.

There was a sound through the speaker – Elias pouring his own cup of coffee. In his mind, Fusco envisioned a silver tray and china cups. "What can I do for you?"

"Early Thursday morning," Carter said, "the First National Bank branch in the Pulaski Building was broken into. The operation was very professional. We're looking for the team that pulled the job."

"I'm sorry," the mob boss answered sincerely. "Bank robberies are … not a part of my organization's activities."

"I know that," Carter said. "But I also know that there's not much in the way of criminal activity that happens in the city without your knowledge."

"If, hypothetically, this burglary were sanctioned, why would I give you any information about it?"

"Because I can't believe you would have sanctioned it if you'd known what they were after."

There was a click of china or ceramic – some kind of cup being set gently down. "And what were they after?"

"They stole all the surveillance equipment and all the computers."

"Not the money?"

"They didn't even try to open the vault."

"Curious," Elias said. "If it was electronics where were after, there are much easier and more profitable targets than a bank. Also curious that two detectives from the Homicide Task Force are investigating a crime you describe as a burglary. The implication is that there was a murder resulting from this incident."

"Attempted murder," Fusco said. "Of a whole lot of people."

"Go on."

Fusco looked at Carter. Telling Elias the truth was dangerous. But it was likely the only way to gain his cooperation. She nodded.

"Terrorists," he explained. "Tried to launch missiles at the city Wednesday afternoon."

Elias made a little disbelieving noise. "I haven't heard about that incident. And due to my present circumstances, I watch a great deal of news these days."

"You see the jets overhead?" Carter asked.

"I did," Scarface volunteered unexpectedly. "They were low. Damn low."

"The computers in that bank," Carter said carefully, "were used to help seize control of the missiles before they could hit. And that night the computers were stolen."

"Perhaps the government wanted to secure them," Elias suggested.

Carter shook her head. "We're working with an FBI task force. They don't know where the hardware went."

"Perhaps the FBI doesn't, but another branch does."

"You think the CIA did this?" Fusco glanced at his partner. He hadn't thought of that. He should have.

"I only suggest it as a possibility. In any case, it's not my policy to involve myself in outside operations."

"Elias," Carter said evenly, "I know you want to take over the city, and you know I want to stop you. That's not going to change."

"I should hope not. You are both an ally and a worthy adversary," he agreed.

She smiled tightly. "The people behind this break-in? They don't want to take over the city, and they don't want to protect it. They want to blow big craters in it. They want to kill a lot of innocent people and terrify everyone who survives. Like 9/11, but times four. That kind of chaos? I can't believe you want that any more than we do."

The coffee cup clicked again. "You're right, of course," Elias finally said. "I am aware of this burglary, but not of the details. It was not carried out by anyone under my sphere of influence, and I am not currently aware of the identity of these burglars. But I will do what I can to learn their names."

"And give them to us," Carter prompted firmly.

He made a little noncommittal noise.

"These guys were hired for this job," Fusco said. "They're little fish. We need them alive to lead us to the big fish."

"Ah, of course. I understand. I will do what I can to ensure that they reach your custody … alive."

"Thank you," Carter said. She ran quickly through the details that they had about the burglary. Elias stayed silent. Scarface didn't comment, either, but Fusco noted that he moved closer to the couch, taking in every word.

"I'll contact you if I'm able to learn anything," Elias promised.

"There is one more thing," Carter said, "if you're willing." She reached for her cell phone. From the corner of his eye, Fusco saw Scarface tense, but he didn't move. His partner keyed to her list and held it out to the man. "These vehicles are among the ones that left the area around the bank within the timeframe of the burglary. They're all registered to owners here in Brighton Beach. I'd like to rule out any that are yours, any that you know had legitimate …" she paused over that word, then shrugged and went on, "business in that area. That will help us narrow down out search."

Marconi took the telephone, glanced at the list, but remained silent.

"Reasonable," Elias said. "Allow Anthony to forward the list to me, and I'll see if there are any of these vehicles I can check off for you."

"We appreciate your help," Carter said. She glanced at Fusco, gave him a little smile.

Within ten minute, the crime boss cut their list in half.

* * *

Reese saw two Skydd security operatives standing openly in the lobby of the hotel. In the time it took him to cross to the elevators, he spotted the other two.

He also saw at least three people who were probably reporters. He didn't stop; he could tell the Skydd people were well aware of them. Skydd was the best private security company in the world, and they considered Will Ingram and his fiancée two of their most profitable clients. He had very few worries in that regard.

Christine had come with Harold in his car, and they'd entered the hotel through the back door.

John paused near the concierge's desk and took another casual look around. It wasn't a perfect set-up, but his knew his way around quite well from their previous case there. He'd been back to Harold's hotel a number of times since then, as well. Several times with Zoe Morgan. His mouth curled up at the corners. He had good memories of this place.

Zoe had said John and Christine would never last as a romantic couple. She'd been completely right, of course. But he didn't need to tell her that quite yet.

She also thought that Christine was Harold's – something. She wasn't right about that, of course. But John couldn't stop thinking about it, teasing it in his mind like a loose tooth he couldn't stop poking at with his tongue. In a lot of ways it seemed impossible. In a lot of others, it made perfect sense…

"Hey, stranger," Zoe said at his elbow.

Reese turned. The fixer was wearing a tight blue dress that hugged every curve, and she wore it well. He smiled mildly. "Zoe."

"You bring your girlfriend with you?"

"She's already upstairs. With Harold."

Zoe gave him an interested look. "Really."

"She doesn't like being in the paper," Reese said.

"I know. Neither does Ingram. I think I've got it killed, but Maxine Angelis is almost as persistent as I am. If she gets even a hint that there's more to this story, she'll be stoking it all over again."

John nodded.

"I don't suppose you can call in any favors with her."

"She doesn't know we saved her life."

"Maybe you should tell her."

"I don't think so."

They both looked over the lobby again, then turned to the elevators. "_Is_ there more to the story?" Zoe asked.

"She got shot by a child molester inside a police precinct," John told her as the elevator doors closed behind them. "Ingram took her home so he could keep an eye on her. She bled into her lung and he stabbed her with a meat thermometer."

Zoe stared at him thoughtfully. "You're making that up."

"I'm not. Scout's honor."

"You were never a Boy Scout," she smirked. She pushed the button one below the penthouse level.

"They're not on the top floor?" Reese asked.

"Sadly, no," Zoe answered. "Such lovely memories I have of that penthouse." She laughed softly. "Don't worry, I'll be good in front of your new girlfriend."

"Thanks."

It wasn't hard to figure out what suite they were in: It was the one behind the two beefy, well-dressed security men. They were clearly expected; the man on the left knocked briefly on the door, then opened it for them.

"Unless you think she'd like to be bad with me," Zoe teased as she went in. "That might be kind of fun."

John grimaced and followed her in.

* * *

As Marconi stood on the dock watching the detectives drive away, his cell phone buzzed. "I'm here, Boss."

"Anyone spring to mind for this?" Elias asked.

Scarface shook his head. "Seems like whoever paid the crew would handle taking down all the surveillance. The inside guys wouldn't have to be anybody with a skill. It's a basic smash and grab."

"No special knowledge of banks, since they weren't cracking the vault. Just three or four guys that could be quick and scoop up everything with a cord."

"And either be trusted to keep their mouths shut …"

"… or be completely expendable," Elias completed. "So despite Detective Carter's view that these are professionals, we may be looking for someone just starting out."

"If they got paid," Marconi said, "they might be flashing the cash."

"Possible."

"I'll see what's on the street."

"Thank you, Anthony. Keep in touch."

"You got it, Boss."

* * *

Will Ingram was on the couch, holding Christine's hand, but he stood up as Harold closed the door. "Zoe, thank you for coming." He held his hand out to John. "Will Ingram."

"John Randall," Reese returned. The young doctor had a decent handshake.

"This is my fiancée, Julie Carson," he said.

"We've met," John answered. He also shook her hand, gently. "It's nice to see you again."

"Under better circumstances this time," she agreed. She met his gaze steadily, then looked to Will. "We met at the hospital, while Scotty was in surgery."

"Mr. Randall works with me," Harold explained.

"Oh," the young man said uncertainly.

"Investigations, security, other duties as assigned," John added.

"Oh," Ingram said again. "So you know Scotty already?"

"I do, yes."

"Good. Well. Welcome." He still seemed puzzled. "We got sandwiches," he said, gesturing to a room service cart that was loaded with sandwiches, fancy chips, and fresh fruit cups, all done with the traditionally elegant Coronet style. There was a second cart with a variety of desserts and beverages.

They all filled plates, then settled around the table in the dining area. Though Will and Julie weren't in the penthouse, their suite had two bedrooms and plenty of living space.

In the shuffle, Reese noted two things. One was that Christine was very quiet and took only half a turkey sandwich, but two of the delicate cups full of coffee. The other was that Ingram was also unsettled, nervous. John couldn't tell quite what was troubling the young man, but it seemed to be about Reese himself.

John did, from time to time, make people uncomfortable, but generally it as deliberate. He hadn't meant to intimidate Ingram; he'd done his very best to seem open and friendly.

It crossed his mind for one instant that there actually was something romantic between the two of them – Will and Christine – but he dismissed it almost as soon as he thought it. All other factors aside, Ingram was a lousy poker player because he was a lousy liar. He wouldn't last ten seconds cheating on someone as alert as Julie Carson.

Also, he was utterly smitten with his fiancée.

"There are reporters in the lobby, you know," John said as they sat down.

"We know," Julie assured him. "Skydd's watching them."

"Good."

Christine's cell rang. She excused herself and walked to the far side of the living room before she answered it.

Zoe watched her thoughtfully, then glanced at John before she spoke. "I've spoke to the editor of the _Journal_. I've convinced him to kill the story, for now at least."

"Thank you," Will said. "How'd you do that?"

"I reminded him that Miss Angelis has a history of failing to fact-check her stories with reliable sources. And that on at least one occasion, it resulted in an innocent man's death."

"Hardball," Julie commented. "I like it."

"What we need to do now," Zoe continued, "is make sure that no new facts pop up to re-open the story."

"And to find out where they got the picture in the first place," Harold added.

Christine put her phone away and returned to the table. "Yeah, that's going to be a problem." She chugged half of one of her cups of coffee. "There are forty-seven people who routinely have access to data from the traffic cameras," Christine reported. "They all have their own log-ins."

"So it should be easy to find the leak," Will said.

"Should be. Except they all forget their passwords all the time, so there's a communal log-in that most of them use."

"That's not good," Zoe stated.

"We'll just skip over my rant on the massive security exploits possible with that arrangement and move right on to the fact that it makes tracing the leaker nearly impossible."

"Can you hack in?"

Christine nodded. "But at best that can tell me when the image was downloaded and at what terminal. It's not going to be conclusive." She sighed. "We need to find some other way."

"What if we go old-school?" Julie suggested. "Offer a bribe. Sorry, a reward."

"Wouldn't that just give Angelis more to chew on?" Will argued.

"Not necessarily," Zoe answered. "If the offer came from _me_ – your money, of course, but if I made the offer – it would just be assumed that I'm gathering information, like I always do." She nodded thoughtfully. "It's definitely a possibility."

"Worth a shot," Christine said.

"I'll contact some people inside the department, then," Morgan agreed. "About a grand?"

"More, if it will help," Julie countered.

"I'll see what I can find out." Zoe gestured to Will and Christine. "What else is out there that ties the two of you together?"

"We did a health clinic in Long Island," Will said. "I don't know if there's any video from that."

Christine shook her head. "I edit him out as soon as his pictures hit the web."

"You do?" Will asked.

"Thank you," Julie said. "I kinda figured that was you."

Will looked to Harold. "That was your idea?"

Finch nodded. "Miss Fitzgerald is exceedingly efficient at controlling her own electronic footprint. I have asked her to exert the same caution on your behalf."

"Since when?"

"Since … well, for some time. I had another person employed with that task previously, but he wasn't nearly as diligent."

"Since my dad died?"

"Yes."

Will blinked. "I … thank you."

Finch seemed embarrassed. "I will always do everything I can to protect you, Will."

The young man smiled, also embarrassed. "I know you will, Uncle Harold."

Zoe cleared her throat delicately. "So if you're not out there on the internets, there shouldn't be any footage of the two of you. Good. Now keep it that way. Don't be seen in public together. Simple."

"Well …" Julie said, "maybe not that simple."

"Why not?"

John sat back a little from the table and watched. He could see Ingram tense, and his fiancée, too. They were reluctant to speak. It clearly involved Christine, but she seemed unaware of that; she was picking at her sandwich with the tips of her fingers, not eating it. She seemed a little pale, listless.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that it wasn't stress that was affecting her. Or at least not only stress.

He stood up, poured a big glass of ice water from the tray, and set it in front of her. "More water," he said, "less coffee."

Christine glared at him. "Heretic. I'm not hung over."

"Sure you're not." She hadn't seemed drunk the night before, but she'd matched his beer consumption bottle-for-bottle and she had half his body mass. Plus she'd gotten less sleep than he had, and dealt with Finch first thing in the morning. "Drink up."

She sipped the water, unconvinced.

"Why not?" Zoe repeated.

"We, um …" Will began. He looked directly at Christine. "We didn't mean to ask you like this. We don't mean to put you on the spot." His eyes flicked to Harold, then back. "And you can absolutely say no, we would totally understand …"

"Oh, God," Christine murmured. She put down the water and chugged more coffee.

"We're going to go ahead with the windmill project," Julie said. "Not just windmills, but renewable energy of all kinds."

"Okay." Christine's voice was very guarded.

"We've been talking with Sam Campanella," Will continued. "You already knew that. He's going to help us set up a non-profit, an NGO. Julie's still got connections with State, and of course the family connections, and I've got my people from MSF, and Sam's going to help us with the business end, forming a board and all, like we talked about."

"The thing is," Julie rejoined, "neither of us knows much about the technology itself. Solar, wind, geothermal – we get the basics, but we need someone who can … well, translate from the scientists."

"We need a CIO, or a CTO, or both," Will finished.

There was a long silence.

Reese looked at Finch. The genius looked studiously at a tasteful but unremarkable painting on the wall. He felt John's stare, glanced at him, then looked away again. He wanted to stay out of it.

_Now_ he wanted to stay out of it. Reese didn't have any doubt that he'd had a hand in this suggestion. He could practically see his partner's fingerprints on this. He knew that Christine saw them as clearly as he did.

"We just …" Will began. Julie touched his hand on the table and he fell silent.

Christine stood up, walked to the sideboard, got a bottle of Irish whiskey, walked back to the table and poured a significant dollop into her glass of water. She capped the bottle and left it on the table, sat down, and drank deeply.

John continued his scan around the table and found Zoe looking at him. He gave her a small crooked smile, as if he knew exactly what would happen next. In reality, he had no idea.

Christine finally said. "I'm guessing that you're not asking me to recommend someone."

"Well, that would be our second choice," Julie answered quietly.

"I don't do corporate."

"It's not corporate," Will protested. "It's a non-profit."

"I don't do dress clothes. I don't commute."

"Strictly casual dress," Julie assured her. "Jeans and t-shirts, or whatever you want. And rock music, on really good speakers."

"You can design the office any way you want," Will added. "Fire place, water slide, anything."

Christine drank again. "Why me?"

"Because we trust you," he answered immediately.

She shook her head. "What I know about renewable energy would fit in one of those coffee cups."

"But you can learn," Julie argued. "And you speak geek fluently. You can translate for us. Plus, your bullshit detector's as sharp as mine."

"We don't need you to do the development or the implementation," Will added. "But we need someone who can deal with the people who do. To figure out what's real, what's promising, what's a scam. And to set up all our systems, of course."

"Unlimited budget," Julie threw in. "And unlimited authority. No big corporate structure. Just the three of us. And the board, of course, but they're just advisory …"

Out of the corner of his eye, Reese saw Harold flinch. That last part was obviously untrue, but he didn't comment.

Christine drained the last of her whiskey and water, and then half of her second cup of coffee. "I need to think about it."

Will and Julie both sighed, relieved. Reese could tell that they'd both expected her to say no outright.

Zoe let the silence settle. "If you're all going to be working together," she finally said, "we're going to have to handle this differently. Our best bet is to give an exclusive interview, all three of you, to a reputable journalist, get the real story out there …"

"_No_," Christine said flatly.

"No," Ingram agreed, less emphatically.

"Look, I understand that you don't like a lot of attention, but this is the only way."

"No," Christine repeated. "I won't risk exposing the child."

"The … child."

"I told you," John said, "she was shot in a police precinct by a pedophile."

"Yeah, and you told me Ingram stabbed her with a meat fork, too."

"A meat _thermometer_," Will corrected.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"A meat thermometer."

"Hey, it worked."

Zoe put her hand on her face for a moment. "If that gets out, even just that part … they're never going to stop." She stood up and took the bottle, poured a short drink into her empty coffee cup, and drained it. "Okay, let me hear this story from the top."

"It can't get out," Christine repeated firmly. "I won't risk involving the child."

"That shouldn't be a problem, unless she was there when you got shot …" Zoe stopped short. "Oh, hell. Who else knows about it? Who else could identify her?"

"A lot of cops," Reese said. "The ones that were there and the ones that heard about it."

The fixer stood up and paced slowly around the table. "No responsible journalist – or even a sleazy one – would release the name of an underage victim of a sex crime,"

"Even if they don't release her name," Christine argued, "if enough details get out, people who know her will be able to identify her. I promised her that wouldn't happen. I don't care what it takes, I won't break that promise."

"Make the reward bigger," Harold suggested. "Go five grand for the picture or any other leaks about Christine. It'll act as a deterrent."

Zoe nodded. "That will help, yes." She looked to Will. "I take it cost is no object?"

"None."

"So we don't want to get into the story of the shooting," Julie said, "but if they keep digging, that's where they'll end up. Unless we distract them."

"Distract them how?"

"Confirm what they suspect. Send Will and Christine out to dinner. Nothing too obvious, but nothing too hard to follow, either. Some leaning in, some hand-holding. A lot of implication, no confirmation."

"They'll swarm," Harold predicted.

"Sure," Julie went on. "But they'll swarm at the present, not at the past. If they think there's something to see now, they won't worry about a picture that's a month old."

"And you're okay with that?" Reese asked.

She looked at him, and then at Will. "Are you having an affair with Christine?"

"No."

"Good." Julie shrugged. "I'm okay with it. I don't care what they say about us, if it protects the child."

_Always liked this girl_, Reese thought warmly. He could see from his expression that Finch felt the same way.

"Or," Christine countered, "I could not work for you, we could not see each other again, and this would all go away."

"That's true," Julie agreed. "And … you should definitely consider that idea. We want you onboard. We really, _really_ want you. But this would be a circus, and if you don't want to go through that …"

"...we would totally understand," Will completed.

"And if you didn't want to go all in," Julie suggested, "maybe we could work together for a year, while we get set up, and then decide then?"

Christine sighed and sat back. "It would be easier to turn you down if you were assholes about it."

"Yeah," Will grinned. "We know."

Christine drained the second cup of coffee and turned to Harold. "I'm sure you have an opinion."

"I could argue either side of your decision," Finch answered carefully. "It's entirely up to you."

She continued to look at him until he continued to speak. "You've always tried to help people," he said. "You want to make things better. This project would be a chance to pursue that goal on a much larger scale."

John watched her expression. It never changed.

"On the other hand," Finch went on, "in the short-term, this proposed course of action would throw you into the spotlight in a way that I know you would abhor, as I would. It would be difficult and unpleasant, and certainly no one would blame you for wanting to avoid the discomfort of publicity."

It was the most elegantly-phrased dare Reese had ever heard.

Christine obviously heard it as clearly as he did.

She stood up. "I'll think about it. I need to go home and pack now."

"You moving?" Zoe asked.

"Finally," Reese said. He stood up, too, and grabbed the last of his sandwich to take along. "I'll drive you."

He had to admit, he liked the surprise on Zoe Morgan's face.


	4. Chapter 4

Maxine Angelis was trying unsuccessfully to track down the paramedics who had responded to Nathan Ingram's loft a month before when her cell phone rang. The caller ID read: _Pay Phone_.

She didn't even thing there _were_ pay phones in New York City any more, but she answered curiously. "Hello?"

A very bored voice said, "You have a collect called from Rikers Island Correctional Facility. Will you accept the charges?"

Angelis was equally certain that she didn't know anyone in Rikers at the moment, but that didn't matter. "Yes, of course."

"Hold, please."

There were some clicks and dead air, and then a man's voice said, "Hello?"

"Hello?"

"You that reporter? The one that wrote the story about the mystery woman?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"My name's Billy Jorgansen. I know who she is."

"Okay."

There was a brief pause. "Well I'm not just going to _tell_ you," he finally said. "There a reward or something?"

"No. There's no reward."

"Huh. Okay then."

"Don't hang up," Maxine said quickly. "There's no reward, but … are you incarcerated?" It was a stupid question; only a prisoner would be calling her collect.

"Yeah. Falsely accused."

"Of course. I could put some money in your commissary account. So you could get cigarettes or snacks or whatever."

"How much money?"

"Fifty bucks?"

"A hundred."

"Fine. What's the name?"

"Uh-uh. You come out here and meet me, I'll tell you what I know. After I check my account balance."

Angelis nodded grimly. "Fine. How's this afternoon?"

The man chuckled grimly. "I think I could clear my schedule."

"I'll be there shortly."

Maxine hung up the phone. It was a long slog out there, this time of day, and prisoners, innocent or not, were never the best source of information. But she was getting nowhere on her own.

Whoever the wounded woman was, and whatever was going on, nobody was talking.

So she'd have to make the drive.

On her way to her car, she called her editor. "Glen? Maxine. I got a break on the Ingram story, but I'm going to need some petty cash."

"No," he answered.

"What?"

"No petty cash. No Ingram story. You're done. Go find some dirt on city council or something."

"What?"

"You're off the Ingram story. It's done. Leave it alone."

"You can't just pull the plug on this. The way nobody's talking, there's something big there, Glen. I can feel it."

"We're not printing another word about him."

Maxine paused, mover her phone away from her face, and looked at it. Glen had been skittish before when she'd found a story about the mysterious, handsome young billionaire. Well, money like that could buy a lot of influence. But this new story, with the bloody woman being carried out of his father's old loft, it was too juicy to let go of. He'd see that, once she put some meat on the bones of it.

"Did you hear me?" Glen said over the phone.

Angelis put the phone back to her ear. "I heard you. I'll go see what I can find out about the mayor or something. Talk to you later."

"Maxine …"

She clicked off the phone before he could finish.

A hundred buck that she might not get reimbursed for, then. It was a chance she was willing to take.

* * *

Christine was silent when they left the hotel, and John gave her time to think. He kept an eye out for tails, more from habit than from expectation, but there were no signs that they were being followed.

When they got close Chaos, she said, "Do you have time to run up to the new place?"

"Nowhere I have to be," he said, and kept driving.

The new apartment was finally finished. The living room was freshly painted, Saints gold, and it was warm and welcoming. The smell of the paint, however, lingered strongly. John opened the front windows, but it would be a whole day before the smell was gone.

It would take roughly ten minutes to uncover the furniture and move it into place.

Christine wandered from room to room, looking around as if she'd never seen the place before. "You still up for this?" John prompted.

Surprisingly, she nodded. "I'll pack today. Let the paint dry. Get some boys in tomorrow to haul stuff. It shouldn't take long."

She was leaving most of her furniture and all of her computer equipment; the apartment at Chaos would remain fully furnished. Books and clothes, food from the refrigerator. She was right, it wouldn't take long.

"When it gets warm again," he said, "I'll finish the back yard."

"I appreciate that, you know. The back yard. I never had a yard."

"I did. That's how I know you need one."

She looked at him, smiled wanly. "I don't know what to do."

"I know you don't." He held his arms out, and she moved into their circle, wrapped her arms around his waist. "We'll protect Marisa," he promised her, folding his arms around her. "Everybody's on board with that."

Christine nodded against his chest. "I just wish I could sort out Random's part in all this."

John leaned back far enough to look at her. "You working with Will and Julie? That's got Finch written all over it."

"I know _that_. Which actually makes it more complicated. Because I think I want to do it, but I don't want to do it because I know he _does_ want me to … and I don't want to do it just because he wants me to, but I don't want to _not_ do it just to be contrary, either."

It took him half a minute to sort through what she'd said – or rather, to give up on sorting it through. "Like his plans for you and me, you need to go with what feels right to you. Leave Harold out of it. As much as you can."

"You make that sound so easy." She drew away from him, continued her stroll around the apartment. "Do you ever get tired of it? Having your life manipulated by a genius?"

"Sometimes." Reese pulled the plastic off one end of the couch and sat down, deliberately not crowding her. "But I used to work for the government, remember? Being manipulated by a genius is way better than being manipulated by a half-wit."

"Hmmm."

"And," Reese continued, "I usually know at least generally what Finch has in mind. He's trying to protect people. To save lives. And to make lives better." He shrugged. "I sometimes question his methods, but never his motives."

Christine sighed softly. "I suppose you're right."

"If it bothers you, tell him to stop."

"Would that work?"

"No. But he'd be less obvious about it."

"Hmmm." She stopped pacing and leaned against the built-in bookcase. "You know the really horrible part? Will and Julie are completely convinced that it's their own idea."

"Uh-huh."

"So now I constantly question whether _my_ ideas are really my own, or whether he implanted them somehow."

"Some idea in particular bothering you?"

She sighed. "Promise you won't tell him?"

"Sure."

"The ground floor here. Office space. If I convince them to put this windmill thing there, I'd have the same commute as I do now."

Reese grinned gently. "Down two flights of stairs."

Christine nodded. "As Dell Shannon says, in for a dollar, might as well rob the bank."

"Dell Shannon the singer?"

"The writer."

"Oh." He tumbled the idea around. It was actually fairly sound. "I don't see Will in some gleaming high-rise," he agreed. "The structure's sound. There's enough space, at least to start out. And you'd know they're good for the rent."

"This all assumes I decide to go to work for them, of course."

"_With_ them," Reese corrected gently. "They don't want you to work _for_ them. They want you to work _with_ them. It's an important difference."

"Either way."

"And either way, you're going to do it, at least for a year."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I am?"

"You are. And here's why. If you don't, they're going to bring in someone else to buy their office equipment and set them up, all the computers, the network … and if you have to watch someone else do that, someone who's not nearly as smart as you, you will tear your hair out. You might as well sign on for the year and save yourself the aggravation."

Christine looked at him for a very long moment. "You make a convincing argument."

"Thank you."

"Is it yours or Random's?"

John shook his head. "It's mine. I think. But it doesn't matter. You know it's true."

"Can I ask you something?"

They'd been talking so easily that the question caught him by surprise. "Of course you can."

She turned back and studied him again. "Do you think Harold leaked the picture?"

Reese opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn't even considered that possibility. And it _was_ a possibility. Finch putting some lever in place to move his stubborn young apprentice to where he wanted her to be: he thought of the dare Harold had thrown down at the hotel. Some motive that John couldn't see clearly yet, some part of his Plan B that hadn't been revealed …

"No," he said.

Christine waited.

"Harold is careful. He thinks about all the aspects of something before he does it. Every possible outcome. He wants you to say yes, and the picture makes that less likely. He wanted you and me together, and the picture might have disrupted a romantic evening."

"Maybe it pushes me into your arms?"

"Then it would have been before, or after. Not during." Reese shook his head. "But most importantly, he would have anticipated that this could expose Marisa. He wouldn't have risked that."

She stood very still for another very long moment. Then, finally, she shrugged, accepting his answer. She walked over and flung herself onto the couch with her legs over his, then settled her head on his chest again. "My life used to be simple," she mourned.

John patted her shoulder gently. "No it didn't, Kitten. You just thought it was simple because you controlled it all."

"I liked controlling it all."

"I know. So does Harold."

After another long pause she sighed. "So I should help fix the world now?"

"It's up to you. But I think you'd be really good at it."

She swore, softly and resigned, in Russian.

* * *

Fusco and Carter worked the vehicles list for hours. Elias had cut it down considerably for them, but then Sherri LaBlanca had sent additional plates to follow up on. They made progress, but it was slow.

They'd stopped for coffee a couple times, but finally at mid-afternoon they went inside a diner and ordered a late lunch.

"There ought to be a name for this," Fusco said, drinking his roughly tenth cup of bad coffee for the day.

"It's called coffee," Carter said wearily. "At least allegedly."

"No, this meal. Between lunch and dinner. Like brunch, only in the afternoon."

"I think it's called tea."

"Yeah, except no one has tea in this country."

Except Finch, he thought, and he looked across the table to see his partner smile as she thought the same thing.

"How many more we got to go?"

She consulted her phone. "Twenty. Thirty."

"Meaning we're doing this all day tomorrow."

"Looks like. That a problem?"

"I'm supposed to have Lee tomorrow." Fusco shook his head. "I'll figure something out."

Carter nodded sympathetically. "How's he doing, anyhow?"

"Good. He's doing good. This thing with Marisa – man, you should see how she'd bounced back. Makes him feel good about himself, you know?"

"He should. He helped her, even though it was scary."

"Yeah." Fusco sipped his coffee again. It tasted like it'd been boiling all morning. "Thing is … I always wonder about kids like that. Marisa, I mean. How do they get past something like that? How do they have any kind of a normal life?"

His partner shrugged. "Some of it, I think, is what happens after. If a kid has a horrible experience but then life after that is normal again – safe, people that care about her – then that horrible thing was just a one-shot, you know? They don't grow up thinking the whole world is like that. Getting Marisa and her mom into counseling will help with that. But others?" She shook her head. "Others have to get tough to survive."

"Like Elias."

She nodded. "And like John."

"And Glasses," Fusco added. "And Christine."

"Now the real question is," Carter said, "what makes one of them into a criminal and the others into people who try to help?"

"Technically," Fusco reminded her, "they're _all_ criminals."

Carter smiled wanly. "Technically, so are _we_."

Lionel considered. Then he grinned, leaned back, and looked at the menu. "Wonder what's good here."

"It sure ain't the coffee."

* * *

Julie Carson picked up one of the elegant, too-rich brownies, took a bite and flopped onto the couch. "I need a nap," she announced. They'd been out late and up early.

"Okay," Will agreed. He flopped down next to her. "We probably shouldn't have sat down then. Getting up will be a bitch."

"Yeah." She finished the brownie and licked her fingers delicately. "Oh, instant heartburn. How nice."

"You want me to run down and get you some Tums or something?"

"No, it'll pass." She put her head on is shoulder. "Well, that went as well as we could have hoped."

"Yeah. You get a read?"

Julie shook her head. "You?"

"Nope. But the news story sure didn't help."

"Nope."

"This John guy. What do you know about him?"

"Not much," Julie admitted. "Like I said, he was at the hospital the night Scotty got shot. He told me he worked with your Uncle Harold."

"Investigations," Will mused. "I didn't think Uncle Harold needed anyone like that."

"From what John said that night, he works with high-end clients who are problems. Like Logan Pierce. I mean, I don't think Pierce is a client, but people like him."

"One-percent pain in the ass types?"

"Exactly. They call it investigations and security, but … I get a definite 'ex-Special-Forces' read on John. I think he's the guy that can get things done."

"Like Zoe, but with a gun."

"If necessary, yes." Julie shrugged. "Harold trusts him, and so does Scotty, apparently."

Will made a little curious noise. When she glanced over, he had his eyes closed. "We shouldn't fall asleep here," she prompted.

"Not sleeping. Just thinking."

"Uh-huh."

"So he came to the hospital to be her bodyguard or what?"

"I think he just came to check up on her, and to see if Harold needed anything."

"Are they a couple, maybe?"

"John and Scotty? That's what I thought, at first. But seeing them together today, I don't think so. I also thought … maybe he and Harold were a couple. Sorry."

Will opened his eyes enough to peer at her. "Don't be sorry. I've known Uncle Harold all my life and I'm still not sure what side of the plate he hits from."

"Ahhh. I feel like less of an idiot then. Anyhow, John said they weren't."

"You just straight-up asked him?"

"Yep."

"That's my girl. I thought Harold and Scotty might be a couple."

"Still a possibility. Maybe he switch-hits."

Will made the curious noise again. "You know, I think I'd be more comfortable if we stopped speculating about my Uncle Harold's sexual preferences."

"Okay."

And then he added, "Maybe they're a threesome."

Julie sighed. "Maybe. But the three of them are like discretion with feet. If they're swinging from the rafters in their private play dungeon, we'll never get a hint about it."

"Now _there's_ a visual I needed."

"You brought it on yourself."

They both dozed for a few minutes. "We should really go back to bed," Will said.

"Yeah. I'm already getting a kink in my neck."

"Mmmm. Speaking of kinky."

She groaned. "Punny."

"Sorry."

"I wonder if your mom knows."

"Knows about Harold's dungeon of delight?"

Julie giggled. "If she knows his preference."

"I doubt it. She pretty much hates him."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure." Will sighed. "It was always one of those 'don't discuss it in front of the boy' things. 'Don't argue about it in front of the boy'. But the bottom line seemed to be that she thought my dad spent too much time with Harold and not enough time with her. Or me. Which didn't really make sense, because he was spending all his time at the company. But I guess she thought Harold encouraged him, pushed him."

Julie considered. "You don't suppose the two of them …?"

"Harold and my dad? Hell, I don't know. But my dad was a pretty dedicated skirt-chaser." Will snorted. "I'd actually have preferred it if he'd been with Harold, instead of with every co-ed in Manhattan."

She turned far enough to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm sorry, love."

"Not your fault." Will shook his head. "I don't mean to get all bitchy about it. But you know, right, that I'm not going to be like that? I would never cheat on you. Never."

"I know. And that's why it's okay if Maxine Angelis and her crowd think you are."

"I don't like it. I mean, I see how it could work, but I don't like it."

"Hey. What happens between us is none of their damn business."

He turned and kissed her full on the mouth. "I love you, Julie."

"I love you, too."

He leaned to kiss her more deeply, and her cell phone rang.

"Damn."

She wriggled until she could get her phone out, looked at the screen, and seconded his response, more emphatically. "_Damn_!"

By then it was on its fourth ring.

"Might as well get it over with," Will said morosely.

"Damn," Julie said one last time. She clicked on the speaker. "Hello, Mother."

"Julie, have you seen this newspaper?" her mother snapped in response.

"Yeah, we saw it."

"Who is this woman? What was she doing with Will? What is going on?"

"Mother, calm down."

"Don't take that tone with me, young lady. This family has a reputation to uphold and I will not have it sullied by your relationships."

"Again," Julie added for her, voicing the subtext that was already there.

"I didn't say that."

"You wanted to."

"Are you just determined to be difficult? Do you think I don't have enough to worry about with all the arrangements for this party to finish up? And your engagement announcement – I really don't know, Julie, perhaps you should put that off for a while …"

It was almost funny, Will thought. The woman had been so determined to get their engagement announced and formalized when she'd first heard about it – her youngest daughter, engaged to only heir of a billionaire, it was quite a feather in her social cap – but now that things had gone just a little off the rails – out of her control – she wanted to wait.

Julie rolled her eyes. "Mother."

Will levered himself up off the couch and went to find his medical bag. He dug around in the outside pockets, came up with a travel pack of antacids, and took them back to her.

"Well who _is_ she, Julie? Do you even know?"

"Her name is Scotty Fitzgerald, and with any luck she's going to be our CTO." Julie took the tablets and chewed them. He got her a glass of water to wash them down.

"Your what?"

"Our chief …"

"Yes, I _know_ what a chief technology officer is, dear. But what on earth do you need one for?"

"For our Million Windmill Initiative."

"Your what?"

"We're going to form a non-profit," Julie answered easily. "Didn't I tell you about it? I thought I did. We're going to do renewable energy in impoverished communities around the world."

"You're _what_? Why would you do that?"

"To make the world better."

There was a long pause. "And I suppose you're using your grandmother's money to pay for all of this."

"It's _my_ money, Mother."

"She must be spinning in her grave."

Will reached over and took his fiancée's hand. She was, he knew, capable of taking a huge amount of her mother's crap without reacting to it. But her grandmother was off-limits, over the line.

The way Julie crushed his hand told him all he needed to know. He reached for the phone in her other hand, but she pulled it away. "Grandma Angela would be thrilled," she said coldly. "If only because I'm doing something I really care about."

Stephanie Carson went quiet for a moment. Will could hear in the silence that the woman knew she'd gone too far. Julie's face was hard, flat. It was an ongoing battle between the two of them. He tried to stay out of it, when he could, only because Julie had asked him to.

He'd always been close with his own mother, so he didn't understand the dynamics anyhow.

Then the older woman sniffed.

Julie let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Don't, Mother."

"I just worry about you, Julie," she answered sorrowfully. "After the way your last marriage turned out …"

"With my husband killed in the line of duty?"

Stephanie ignored that part; she'd never approved of Julie's first husband, and the fact that he'd been killed in action as a Marine meant nothing to her; it was simply a failed marriage in her book. "And you know I love Will like he was my own, I adore him, but honestly … you must know what a reputation his father had, and I'm just afraid that pictures like this are going to … well, you know. People will talk. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"I'll see you Thursday," Julie said quickly, and clicked the phone off.

Then she threw it across the room. It thudded unharmed onto the thick carpet.

"I am so sorry," Julie said.

"For what?" Will sat down next to her again. "Because your mother said something I just got done saying myself?"

"She makes me so damn crazy sometimes."

"All the time."

She threw an elbow into his ribs. "You're not helping."

"How's your heartburn?"

"Worse, of course. I should have known. God, who even reads the _Journal_ anymore? But it doesn't matter that Scotty's our friend, or that you saved her life. Just that there might be a scandal. Heaven forbid!"

"Her and the rest of the city," Will said. "I don't care. We'll get through it. We have a plan, remember? Announce our engagement, deal with reporters and your dad's party next weekend, and then blow the country for a few weeks. By the time we get back they'll have moved on to something else."

"You know, it's not going to be easy to set up a corporation if we keep having to flee the country."

"We're not fleeing. We're just … choosing to leave for a little while. And besides, if we have the best tech geek in the world on this side, it doesn't matter where we go. We can Skype in from anywhere."

She sighed. "They're going to say we're announcing the engagement to take attention away from the scandal."

Will thought about it. "Do you want to put it off, then?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

"Maybe we should consult the experts again."

"Probably not a bad idea. But we need to know if Scotty's going to jump into the boat first."

Ingram nodded. "So we're back to going back to bed."

"Now I've talked to my mother and I'm all agitated and not sleepy."

He rolled to his feet and held his hand out to her. "Even better."


	5. Chapter 5

Maxine Angelis told herself firmly that she was not afraid. Rikers Island was an intimidating place, of course. There were criminals all around her, many of them violent. It was normal, she told herself, to be anxious. That was simple common sense. Survival instinct. But she was safely on the right side of the gates and fences; she was with the good guys, the guys with the guns. She waited in the visitors' room, safely behind glass. Nothing to be afraid of. She just needed to relax.

At least she needed to _look_ relaxed.

The minute they led her mysterious caller in to the other side of the booth, she relaxed in earnest.

Billy Jorgansen looked like every petty sleazeball criminal she'd ever met. He had a little gleam in his eye and a swagger in his step. He thought he was smarter than her. Smarter than everyone around him.

Maxine was willing to let him go on thinking that. She knew from experience that she'd get the best information that way.

"You Angelis?" he asked as he sat down.

"Yes. Jorgansen?"

"You can call me Billy." His mouth quirked up at the corner. "Thanks for the commissary fund."

Angelis held up the morning edition of the paper, folded to the Ingram picture. "You said you could tell me who the woman in the picture was."

"You get right to the point, don't you?" He quirked again, almost a sneer. "I know the bitch. She's the reason I'm here."

"Okay." Maxine brought out her notepad. "What's her name?"

"Fitzgerald. Scotty Fitzgerald."

Angelis' pen paused over the paper. "Like the writer?"

"Huh?"

"F. Scott … never mind. Where do you know her from?"

"She got my friend killed."

"How?"

Jorgansen leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "Here's the thing. My girlfriend's got this daughter. And this lying little bitch tells someone at her school that I'm doing things to her. You know what I mean, things?"

Angelis took a slow breath and tried to keep her face impassive. She should have done her research; she should have known her informant was a child molester. _Accused_ child molester. She'd gotten too excited about getting the name. Which was probably fake anyhow. "Okay."

"So whoever she told got in touch with this woman, Fitzgerald. At least I think so."

"You're not sure?"

"Just listen. The little bitch made up all kinds of stories. Said I was making her pose for dirty pictures and selling them on the internet. Said I told her I'd post them to her school's Facebook page if she told anyone. I mean, shit, I don't know where this kid got all these ideas. Probably watching _Law and Order_ or some shit. None of it's true. You understand? I would never touch a kid like that."

Maxine didn't answer. She knew her voice would shake if she tried.

"Anyhow. Somehow the cops find out about it and I get arrested. My girlfriend comes in to throw my bail, and the cops try to talk her out of it. And while they're screwing around, my friend comes in. The little bitch named him, too. Said we were partners. But Joey, he's done some time before. He always said he wasn't going back in. Not on a kid rap, you know? I mean, he knew how guys like us – guys who got accused of stuff like this – got treated inside. He said he'd rather be dead."

The pen in her hand was shaking visibly. Maxine set it down and put her hands in her lap, under the table top.

"So he comes into the precinct and goes to shoot the girl. Figures he'll kill the witness, you know? No witness, no case, right?"

"But …" Angelis stopped herself. That approach made no sense at all. Maybe murders got better treatment inside than child molesters, but not when they murdered the child they were molesting. Jorgansen was apparently too dumb to know that. "Go on."

"Joey shoots at the girl. But this bitch," he gestured toward the newspaper, "she steps in the way. Takes the bullet. Then the cops go ape shit and shoot of Joey. Hear the guards talk, he was dead ten times over before he hit the ground."

Maxine leaned back in her chair, putting as much distance between herself and the prisoner behind the glass as possible. She'd heard about the shooting inside the 15th Precinct. Heard that the suspect was a child molester who'd attempted to shoot a child. That he was dead and that one civilian had been injured. She would never have guessed that the woman in the picture with Ingram was involved.

"How do you know it was this woman?" Angelis asked finally.

"The guards talk. They all know her. Guess she's sent a bunch of guys up here. Guy in the next cell said she's the one who got him thrown in the can. He was stalking his ex and this bitch caught him somehow. And he says there are others. One guy, I guess she posted stuff online about him and his own brother beat the shit out of him and turned him in. She's some kind of nark."

"A consultant for the police?"

"Yeah. Some kind of computer genius or something." He shrugged. "All them pictures they got of Marisa, she must've faked them. You know, Photo Shop or something. 'Cause I would never touch a kid like that."

"What's this woman got to do with Will Ingram?" Maxine wondered aloud, mostly to herself.

"Wasn't his daddy some big computer guy?"

She nodded thoughtfully. Nathan Ingram had been _the_ big computer guy. His son was a doctor, and rumor had it he couldn't operate his smart phone on his own. But if he didn't have his father's computer skills, he certainly had his money. He could hire someone to operate his phone for him. A computer genius. Who helped the police on the side? She wasn't getting the whole picture yet. But at least she had place to start.

"What I heard around here," Jorgansen went on, "after Joey shot her she went to the hospital and they let her go. And then overnight she almost died." He ran his hand over his face. "My court lawyer said if she died, they were going to try to charge me with her murder. Can you believe that shit? Charging me because of what Joey did?"

"Accessory before the fact," Maxine muttered.

"Yeah, that." He shrugged, cocky again. "Anyhow, it's all bullshit. None of it will stick. But you know, while I'm stuck in here, might as well have smokes, right?"

"Uh-huh." Angelis stood up. "Thank you for the information. It was very helpful."

"Maybe you come back and see me, huh? A guy gets lonely in here."

She couldn't help herself. "You want me to wear a plaid skirt and saddle shoes?"

Jorgansen's face hardened in the smirk. "Bitch."

"Thanks." Coming from this skeeze, it was a compliment.

* * *

William Robinson was just setting out bowls for the evening dinner when the young man came through the door of the shelter. The boy looked a little healthier than he had the last time Robinson had seen him, a little taller and definitely cleaner. But he also looked tired, cold and hungry.

"Come in, young man," he said warmly. "Come in, soup's almost ready."

The boy shuffled a bit and kept his eyes down.

"Can you help me with these?" Robinson invited. He gestured to the stacks of bowls, then walked back to the kitchen. The young man followed. He got one stack of bowls. The boy brought two.

"There should be a stack of plates there, too. Could you get them?"

"Sure."

"Been a while since I've seen you around," the older man said.

"Yeah."

"Your little gal's not with you?"

The boy shook his head. "She went home." His voice seemed to take a little light. "She went back to school. She's doing real good."

"That's good to hear." Robinson kept his eyes on the dishes, giving the boy space. "And you?" he asked gently. "You didn't go home?"

"I tried." The light was gone; the boy's voice was full of heaviness that no boy's voice should ever had. "It didn't work out so good."

"Well. That's a shame."

They worked quietly for a moment. Robinson noted that the young man watched what he did – stacking the bowls and plates in groups of five – and did the same without asking. "You looking for work?" he asked.

"I, uh, I got a job," the boy said. "But we don't get paid until Monday, so I'm a little short."

"You're welcome here," Robinson assured him. "If you want to come by every day, get a meal or two, we'd be glad for the help."

The boy shrugged. "Just tonight, I think," he said softly.

"Well, you change your mind, you know where to find us."

The cook brought a big kettle of soup out and put it on the trivet. Robinson got the ladle and filled a bowl for the boy. "You go and eat now," he said. "When you're done, if you want, you can help serve. But you're not obliged."

"Sure," the boy said. "Sure."

He took the bowl and moved off to a seat in the corner.

Will Robinson kept his eyes and hands busy elsewhere. The boy was clearly hurting, but he wasn't ready for any more kindness yet. He just wanted to be left alone. Robinson had been there. He understood completely.

* * *

Her teenage son was still up when Carter got home, but it was a Friday night, so she couldn't really complain. Also, Taylor had made supper, baked rigatoni, and he came to the kitchen to warm some up for her, so she was extra glad to see him.

She changed out of her work clothes and sat down at the table wearily. "Thank you, Baby," she said when he brought the plate out of the microwave.

"You want some sweet tea? I made it with decaf. "

"Still a ton of sugar. Just a short one, okay?"

"Okay." He got it, then sat and watched her eat. "I, um, had a little accident with the garlic. The top came off. But I think I got most of it scooped out."

"It's really good, Taylor. Thank you. I needed this after the day I had." She ate a few more bites and sipped her tea. It was, as always, teeth-achingly sweet. "Perfect."

"Sooooo," the teenager said when she was nearly done. "I got my English paper back."

Carter kept her disappointed sigh very quiet. "I know you worked really hard on that paper, Baby."

"Yeah." He looked at the tabletop for a long moment. "Kinda sucks I only got an A-minus on it."

Joss grinned. "You brat! Good job."

"Yep. Got my average up to a B. And I still got time."

"I'm proud of you, Taylor. I knew you could do it."

He grinned back at her. "Thanks, Mom."

"And I'm guessing," she said, chewing the last bite, "that you think you deserve some kind of reward for doing what you should have been doing all along."

"Your praise is reward enough, Mother," he said solemnly. Then he cracked a grin. "It is, really. I know it's what I'm supposed to be doing. And I'm going to keep working at it, I promise."

"And?"

"Scotty … Miss Scotty, she's moving to her new place tomorrow, and she said if some of us Elves wanted to come and help she'd get Massive Mexican for D&D night after. And since most of the regular Elves are still at college, I thought I could go spend the day. If it's okay with you."

The Elves were Christine Fitzgerald's band of Christmas helpers, college and high school students who wrapped presents for harried parents and neighbors and did other little holiday tasks as needed. The woman paid the students out of her pocket, but the service was free: if relieved shoppers wanted to make a donation, she forwarded it to the charity of their choice. Taylor had been inducted into the Elf Corp the previous Christmas, and after the first day he'd loved every minute of it. And, as Christine had predicted, spending time with kids who were a little older, college kids, had been a good motivator for Taylor to get his senior grades up.

Taylor had also recognized that an elderly man was having a health crisis and helped to save his life. He didn't think it was a big deal, but Joss could have burst with pride over it.

If she let him go, he would come home late, hyper on sugary coffee drinks, reeking like only a teenage boy could, buzzing with excitement, and completely exhausted.

"It sounds like a great idea," she said.

"Thanks, Mom." He stood up and cleared her dishes.

"Rinse that," she advised, but he was already doing so. Carter stood up and stretched. "That was terrific, Taylor. Thank you." When he'd put the plate in the dishwasher, she gave him a big hug. "I really appreciate it."

"You want to talk about it?"

"Can't," she answered. Even if she'd been able to, she wasn't going to tell her teenaged son that the city had nearly been attacked two days before. They were safe now; he didn't need to know. "Just a bunch of computers we're trying to track down."

"Well, that sounds better than a bunch of dead bodies."

"When you put it that way, you're absolutely right." Joss nodded. "You should get to bed. I'll take you to breakfast in the morning and then drop you off at Chaos. How far is the new place from there?"

"I think like ten blocks or something. Not very far."

Fusco, Carter thought, would be very pleased that his friend was finally moving out of the Chaos building. He'd shot her father in front of the old bar …

"You think she'd mind if Lee tagged along?" Carter asked.

"Scotty? I don't see why. He's big enough to haul boxes."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

She kissed her son goodnight, and then she called her partner.

* * *

Maxine Angelis glared at her computer screen. It should have been an easy search. There should have been a ton of information available about the woman Jorgansen had told her about. But she kept coming up empty.

She was almost ready to admit that the child molester had lied to her. Imagine that. But he'd known too many details, and they fit too well. He wasn't a smart man. So it followed that he had to be telling the truth.

He'd said the woman was some kind of computer genius. That made sense, actually. The way photos of Will Ingram always disappeared off the internet. The way her article had disappeared off the _Journal_'s website.

Hell, all the problems she'd had after she'd run the first story about Ingram.

It made sense.

Maxine looked around. She was safely alone in her apartment. But the computer – she could almost see someone else's fingers on the keyboard. Was her search being followed somehow remotely? Was the woman in the picture watching every move she made?

The computer's camera was off, but Angelis tore a piece of paper off her notebook, folded it and draped it over the top of the screen so it covered the camera's eye.

Will Ingram had an electronic sniper on his payroll, and Maxine felt like she'd walked into the woman's sites.

And if she kept poking around …

But she wasn't going to be scared off. Not by Ingram's money, and not by all the talent he could hire to work against her.

It didn't sound now like Ingram had assaulted the woman. But Angelis still didn't know why the woman had been at the loft. Billionaire didn't generally take their wounded employees home with them. Especially when they're engaged to someone else …

There was a story there. She could feel it.

The fact that she couldn't get anyone to talk to her about the woman being shot in the precinct just whetted her appetite.

Something there. Somewhere. She just needed to keep digging.

Maxine Angelis was very good at digging.

* * *

John Reese sat quietly by his window and watched the city grow quiet. Heavy gray clouds were rolling in, catching the city lights and reflecting them, keeping the night from growing any darker. It was never really dark here anyhow. His stitches itched a little, and his arm ached mildly. But for the moment neither was urgent enough to make him move. His body was still, at rest. His mind was active, but not frantic.

He liked having time to think about things. He often didn't. It was a kind of meditation, he supposed. Just sit and think things through as they rose in his thoughts. Sort things out and put them away. Clear the decks.

Never enough time. Almost never.

Any minute now, the phone would ring and Finch would tell him they had a new Number and there wouldn't be time again. But for right now, for however long it lasted, there was nothing but him and the night and his thoughts.

Finch. Finch and Christine and Will Ingram. Finch and the picture of Christine with Will. Finch and his plans for Christine and John. His plans for Christine and Will and Julie. For renewable energy and saving the planet.

Will and his Uncle Harold, who wasn't his uncle at all. But he'd called him Uncle Harold his whole life. As if the Nathan and Harold had been brothers instead of friends.

Which, in one sense, they had been.

There was a name for that. Fictive kin. The relatives you acquire by choice, rather than birth or marriage. Reese had never thought he'd have any of his own. But if Christine ever had children, he reflected, they would grow up calling him Uncle John.

Assuming he wasn't dead before they learned to talk.

He'd chosen her as his sister, and Harold – he would gladly have called Finch his brother, if he'd been sure he would allow it.

His mind swung to that night in the parking garage, when he'd been certain he was going to die. Stumbling down the steps and into Finch's supportive arms. To the night on the roof, when he trembled in the cold wind and tried to stand still while Finch risked his own life to guess the code that would unlock Kara Stanton's bomb vest. Yes, he could probably get away with calling Finch his brother. The man might blush and fuss, but he would allow it. Accept it.

Probably, in his very private way, welcome it.

Finch and Christine. Finch and the picture …

Reese pulled out his cell phone and hit the number he used most often.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch answered on the first ring. "Everything alright?"

"Did you leak the picture?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The picture. Did you leak it?"

"No."

It was a simple, unequivocal answer, from a man who had promised never to lie to him. Finch had bent that promise on a number of occasions, but as far as John knew he'd never outright broken it.

"Does Christine think I did?" Finch asked.

"No." Finch had promised never to lie; Reese had never promised to reciprocate. And it was only a half-lie, anyhow.

"Will she take the job?"

"I don't know yet." That _was_ an outright lie, but Finch probably knew that, so it didn't count anyhow. "Call me if we get a Number."

"Of course, Mr. Reese."

John put his phone away. Asked and answered. He hadn't been convinced that Finch was behind the leak, anyhow, but Christine's doubt had sparked his own.

He shuffled the pieces around in his thoughts again. New pieces rose. Zoe Morgan, with open speculation in her eyes. Joss Carter and Cal Beecher. Carter and Agent Moss. Missiles over Manhattan. Computers stolen from banks. Finch's certainty that they weren't an issue. But someone had tried to kill a lot of innocent people …

Relevant to National Security. Not his circus.

Strange that no irrelevant numbers had come up, but the Machine had gone silent before for a few days. It wouldn't last, and it hadn't been long enough yet for him to worry. Only to wonder.

Something else had changed. Something closer to home. Something he sensed and hadn't thought about yet.

Below, in the park, a big white dog romped cheerfully, off his leash. Reese watched while his owner sauntered after him, unconcerned. Just playing, then, not escaping.

Christine as a sister. But that felt natural, as if it had already been in place and he'd only needed to give it a name. It wasn't a change in structure, only in language.

But something. The picture. Christine's doubts …

"Ahhh," he said quietly to the night. Christine's doubts were new.

Before now, she had trusted Finch without question or hesitation. She hadn't minded when he lied to her – she'd openly encouraged him to do so. She truly believed that Harold knew what was best for her, that he would _do_ what was best for her. She had been a childlike acolyte, a true disciple. A true _believer_.

A worshipper, no less fanatic in her own way than Root had been.

Christine still believed in Finch. But she no longer trusted him blindly. Not like she had.

She seemed to see him now more the way Reese did: The smartest man in the room, and the one with the truest moral compass. But a man nonetheless. A man and not a god.

She'd stopped worshipping him.

That was a big change, and John wondered what had caused it.

He looked back, trying to see when it had changed, when Finch had tumbled off his pedestal.

When Donnelly died?

When she got shot?

That night in the hospital, when she'd turned to John for comfort instead of to Harold?

"Damn."

This, John realized, was pointless. He could sit here all night, he could sit here forever, and he could never sort this out. Christine Fitzgerald was a woman. He would never understand what she was thinking.

* * *

By morning the sky was sullen gray and pissing down cold rain in fits and starts.

Carter and Fusco met at Chaos to drop off their respective sons and to load up on exceptionally good coffee. The boys promptly wandered off to look at some new computer games one of the other Elves had brought. The detectives sat at the end of the bar and talked to Christine.

"Saw the paper," Fusco said. "You okay?"

She smirked. "So far, so good. She hasn't tracked me down yet."

"She will," Carter predicted. "That why you're moving now?"

"It was in the works anyhow, but it can't hurt."

"I suppose I don't have to tell you I'm glad you're finally doing this," Fusco said.

"I know, sweetie." She sipped her own coffee. "So you guys are working with Moss, huh?"

Carter nodded. "Tracking down your computers."

"If they were _my_ computers," Christine pointed out, "they'd be tagged. They'd already be telling you where they were."

"I guess the bank figured, those big tower things in a bank, nobody would bother stealing them." Fusco glanced toward the boys, dropped his voice. "You sure they can't get anything useful off them?"

"I'm sure. They just function as terminals – like a keyboard attached to a computer that's somewhere else."

"But there's no way to trace that?" Carter pressed. "No way to crack them open and find out the … phone number or whatever? The central location?"

"I'm not even sure there _is_ a central location," Christine answered. "But trust me, we're talking about the most secure system ever created. It erased its footprints on the way out. I'm certain of that."

"Yeahhhh," Fusco said. "I work for the government, remember? They get everything from the lowest bidder. I'm not convinced it's all that secure."

The hacker smiled. "No, don't trust the government. But trust _me_. It's safe."

"If you say so." He looked at his partner, who was looking at Christine curiously. "What?"

"Nothing," Carter answered. "I was just thinking … nothing. Never mind." She gestured to her cup. "Can we get some of this to go?"

The hacker reached under the counter, brought out a big white Thermos jug, and set it on the bar. "Way ahead of you." She added a stack of three paper cups, the top one with sugar and creamer packets in it, and two lids. "Happy hunting."

"Thanks." Fusco took the jug; Carter grabbed the cups. "Lee, behave yourself."

"I will, Dad," the boy called.

"Taylor, keep an eye on him," Joss added.

"I will, Mom."

Fusco looked back at Christine. "You sure you're up to this?"

"I love children," she assured him serenely. "Especially the ones I can load up with caffeine and then send home."

"Great," Carter said. They went out to the car.


	6. Chapter 6

Len Andreani woke up when the boy came back into the apartment. The other guys, he noted with some disgust, didn't even move. "Where you been?" he called to the boy.

"Just getting some breakfast."

"You bring me any?"

The teenager opened his backpack, brought out a bagel, and tossed it to him.

"What, no shmear?"

"Sorry. That was all they had."

Andreani turned the bread in his hand. It was pretty hard. "Day old?" he asked. "Where'd you get this, the soup kitchen?"

"Well … yeah."

The man rolled to his feet. The shoulders of the kid's coat were damp, and he smelled like a wet dog. "You that broke, kid? How come you didn't say something?"

The teenager shrugged. "You gave me a place to stay already. And once we get paid Monday I'll be all set. Just gotta get through the weekend. I'm cool."

"You're an idiot." Len got out his wallet and gave the boy a twenty. "Stretch that out if you can. But you come see me when you run out."

"I can't, Len … "

"You can pay me back Monday. With interest."

The kid grinned shyly and put the money in his pocket.

Andreani looked around the tiny apartment. It was just an efficiency, allegedly furnished. All four of them had been sleeping on the floor; if they pulled down the Murphy bed, there wasn't enough floor space for the others. It smelled like a locker room. But it was safe. And they weren't paying any rent. Like the kid said, it only had to last until Monday.

He stepped over Peterson, sat down on the couch, and grabbed the TV remote. The television set was one of those ancient boxes that weighed about a hundred pounds – and it was chained to the wall, like anybody would steal it. "First thing I'm gonna do when we get paid," he said, "is buy me a big ole' flatscreen."

"First thing I'm gonna do," the teenager answered, "is move out of here."

"What, you don't like our company?"

As if in answer, Nekl ripped a massive fart in his sleep.

"Yeah, you probably got a point," Andreani admitted.

* * *

Carl Elias inhaled appreciatively as he walked into the visitor's room. Marconi was unpacking his breakfast. French toast today, by the smell of it, and sausage, of course. "Thank you, Anthony."

His lieutenant smiled crookedly and set out the plates. The food came in disposable foam containers, but Elias saw no reason to eat like a barbarian, despite being in prison. There were real plates, real cups, real silverware.

Marconi sat down and ate with him, because Elias did not care to dine alone.

"Anything on the bank job?" he asked, when they were settled.

"Nothing so far," Anthony reported. "I've checked all our affiliated crews and they all say they're not in on it. No surprise there."

"No. None of my people would have done this without my permission."

"None of the regular freelancers that I've tracked down know anything about it, either, or else they're not talking."

"You were persuasive as usual?"

Marconi rubbed his knuckles lightly. They were a little red, mildly swollen. "Of course."

"Hmmm."

"I still got a dozen or so to see," he continued. "And I got everybody on the street listening. Something will turn up."

Elias nodded thoughtfully. "From Detective Carter's description, they were well-organized. That suggests an established team. Perhaps from out of town?"

"Maybe. But someone would have noticed them."

"Unless they were in and out."

"Or they're holed up somewhere."

The mob boss ate a few more bites, drank a little coffee while he considered the possibilities. "If, as our friends surmise, all of the surveillance aspects were handled by someone outside the crew, he might have been able to direct them to precisely the equipment he wanted. So perhaps this team isn't as experienced as we've been looking for."

"Maybe," Marconi agreed. "But the hook and line up to the cameras? That takes some practice. Maybe ex-military?"

"The city does host a significant population of recently-unemployed veterans," Elias noted. "Check the rest of the known teams. And then perhaps lower your sites a little. Look for cheap residences, shelters, perhaps. From what Detective Carter said they may not have been paid in full, so they may well be sticking together until they receive their final payment."

"I'll check it out." Marconi started to push back from the table.

"Finish your breakfast first," Elias chided gently. "Tell me what else is happening in the world beyond these walls."

The lieutenant smiled again, wiped his mouth, and began his report.

* * *

Morning renewed Maxine's paranoia. She'd shut her computer all the way down the night before. Now she was reluctant to boot it up, even with the camera off and covered. She felt like someone was looking over her shoulder.

She packed up her computer and her notes, put on her raincoat with the hood, and headed out.

She thought about going to the office. But she didn't want to talk to Glen until she had something really solid to show him. _Really_ solid. A name and a place and a candid photo. Once she had the mystery woman, he'd have to let her finish the story.

The rumor was that the tech billionaire's son couldn't operate a basic laptop on his own. It should have occurred to people a long time before that he could easily hire someone to do it for him.

The Boy Billionaire's personal tech geek. His personal hacker. And she was damn good at what she did.

Maxine needed somewhere with WiFi, but where she could be anonymous.

Library, she thought immediately.

She pulled out her smart phone. "Show me all the libraries in the area."

The phone chirped and produced a map.

Angelis touched a yellow dot. "What's this?"

The screen changed. NYU COLLEGE OF LAW LIBRARY.

It was the closest. It wasn't public, exactly, but she doubted they'd card her at the door. Even if they did, her press credentials usually got her in. She shrugged her bag up on her shoulder and started to walk.

* * *

"What is this place?" Taylor asked. He set his stack of boxes down on the floor just inside the empty room with the others.

The rest of the apartment was really nice. But through this doorway in the hall, this one huge room the size of about four big bedrooms, wasn't finished. It was just windows and bare stud walls and an unfinished pine floor. Even the door frame looked a little weird, as if it had been added after the hallway wall was finished. The paint around the frame didn't quite match the rest of the hall. Like they'd just discovered this space was here somehow, even though it took up like a quarter of the whole floor. It was weird.

"I don't know yet," Christine answered.

"You could put in a pool table," Lee suggested, dropping his own boxes next to the growing pile.

"Or a trampoline," Melody suggested. "But your downstairs neighbors would probably bitch."

"I don't have any yet."

"I'd def go with the tramp, then."

"Right. I already broke a rib this year, might as well go for the collar bone, too."

The girl grinned. Then she turned a pretty little cartwheel across the empty floor. "You could put mats in and make it a dojo."

"There's still nothing downstairs?" Lee asked.

"Nothing but space like this."

"Can we see?" Mo asked. He was the tallest of the teens; Taylor had met him at Christmas and they'd been the same height, but now he was about three inches taller.

"Sure." Christine stepped back into the hallway. "Alan? Unlock the other floors, please."

A man's voice answered. "Right away, Scotty." His accent was British and precise, but he sounded politely bored.

All the kids jumped and then laughed. "Who was that?" Taylor demanded.

"That's Alan. He's my computer."

"I know that voice from somewhere," Darryl said.

"Make him talk again."

Christine chuckled. "Alan, give them another voice sample, please."

The computer voice – which wasn't loud, but sounded like it came from every corner of the apartment – sighed. "Oh, very well. 'I didn't ask to be made: no one consulted me or considered my feelings in the matter. I don't think it even occurred to them that I might have feelings. After I was made, I was left in a dark room for six months... and me with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side. I called for succour in my loneliness, but did anyone come? Did they hell. My first and only true friend was a small rat. One day it crawled into a cavity in my right ankle and died. I have a horrible feeling it's still there...'"

"It's Snape!" Reanne squealed in delight.

"No," the computer answered heavily. "That was Marvin the Paranoid Android, created by Douglas Adam, as voiced by Alan Rickman, who, yes, is also the actor who plays Snape."

The teens squealed again.

"How did you do that?" Melody asked. "That's cool as hell."

"Upload a big enough sample – in this case everything Rickman has ever recorded – create an algorithm to let the computer sort to the correct word. I stole some of it, wrote the rest."

"So it's like Siri," Mo said, "but way cooler."

She nodded. "Only Siri's in preschool and Alan's working on his Master's."

"Not that you're vain about it or anything," Taylor teased.

"Me? No. Never."

Josh, who never spoke, said, "Cool."

"Alright," Reanne said, "let's go get the rest of the stuff."

"Hey, Scotty?" Darryl asked. "Could we game in here?"

"In here?" She gestured to the empty room.

"Yeah. It would be awesome."

She thought about it. "I guess. There are some chairs downstairs, and sawhorses and stuff, you could make a table."

"Cool!"

"We'll have to string some lights. There are some down on the ground floor, the construction ones."

"Me, too?" Lee asked quietly.

"Of course you too," Taylor said. "You already know how to play."

"Boxes first," Mo said.

"And unpacking them," Darryl added.

"No," Christine said firmly. "You bring them up and put them in the dead space. I'll do the unpacking."

"All of it?"

"OCD," she answered. "Trust me, we'll all be happier."

The kids trudged down to the truck for the next load of boxes.

* * *

The tenth time Carter for out of her car and icy rain ran down the back of her neck, she snapped. "This is bullshit, Fusco."

He looked over the car at her. "Yeah," he agreed. "I ain't responsible for the weather, Carter."

"There's got to be a better way to do this."

They'd spent all morning tromping around the borough, trying to track down the rest of the vehicles that had been caught on cameras surrounding the bank. They'd found about a third of them. Some were company vehicles belonging to companies that were close on weekends. Some were personal vehicles that couldn't be found at their registered home addresses. The few they did manage to find owners for all had a legitimate-sounding reason for being in the neighborhood.

They had roughly forty-eight hours to track down the one they needed. From the chatter on the radio, the rest of the task force wasn't doing much better.

They stopped under the awning outside the air filter supplier's door. The company wasn't open; inside it was dark and quiet. They could see their target vehicle through the high fence around the parking lot. Probably legitimate, but they needed to talk to the owner about where his truck had been delivering the week before.

"I feel like we're going at this the wrong way."

"Maybe we could ask Glasses to run them down for us," Fusco suggested.

"It's a thought." She didn't like it. She preferred to do her police work by the book. But they were spinning their wheels out here, and getting soaked doing it. "If we run out of time, we'll give him a call."

"So what else did you have in mind?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Well, while you think about it, let's get out of the rain." He left the shelter of the awning and trotted back to the car. Carter followed.

He filled their cups with the last of the coffee from Chaos. "I should check on Lee," he said.

"Yeah. See how Taylor's doing while you're at it."

He brought his cell phone out and called his son.

Carter listened to her partner's side of the first part of the conversation, enough to assure her that all was well at Chaos. She hadn't been very worried. Moving in the rain was a pain, but aside from that she expected things to go smoothly. They all knew it would be precisely organized.

She stared out through wet windshield and tried to think. If it had been her case from the start, she thought, what would she have done differently? Would she be out here trying to track down vehicles, or would she be working a different angle?

It was hard to decide. If it had been her case, she would have started at the scene. What she found there would have told her where to look. But Treo and Avery had covered that part. Avery, at least, was a damn fine investigator. She'd read the reports and hadn't seen any obvious holes in it. She'd also seen the photos from the crime scene.

Photos and reports weren't the same as actually seeing the scene, though. She didn't have the visceral feel for it. Her instinct wouldn't engage with paper. She needed to be there.

Fusco finished his call and put his phone away. "All good," he said. "They got all the stuff moved in and they're setting up for D&D Mexican, whatever that is."

"I think those are two separate things," Joss told him. "D&D's a board game, and Mexican's … food."

"Oh. That makes more sense. Anyhow, they're good and the boys are welcome to stay as long as they need to."

"Good. 'Cause we're going to be a while."

"I know." Fusco scowled at the rain. "Now what?"

"This is going to sound crazy, but I want to see the bank."

"They'll be closed."

"The lobby will be open. I need to look around, get a feel for it."

"You think they missed something?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe." Carter sighed. "At this point, I'm _hoping_ they missed something, 'cause otherwise we got nothin'."

"Works for me," Fusco said. "At least we get to stay in the car for a while."

* * *

Maxine Angelis didn't have any problem getting into the law library. That turned out to be the easiest part of her investigation.

Once she was there, her paranoia eased a little. She still kept her camera covered, but she was bolder with her internet searches. There might be a lot of people named Fitzgerald in Greater New York, but she was a good investigative reporter. Now that she had a name, it should be easy to find the woman.

Except that it wasn't.

There were plenty of Fitzgeralds, and FitzGeralds, all right. Even when she narrowed it down to S, Scotty and Scott Fitzgerald, the list was still huge. Add F, Frances and Francis, and the list exploded again. She wouldn't have thought New York was quite such a literary-minded town.

Changing tactics, Angelis tried to learn more about the shooting in the 15th Precinct. It had been covered extensively. Yet most of the articles had disappeared from the internet. "Damn it," she swore. Even the _Journal_'s coverage was gone. She logged into the paper's intranet, where the files should have been. They were gone.

She was starting to learn how this mysterious Fitzgerald woman worked. It was scary.

Back when she'd run her first stories on Ingram and Carson, she'd had all kinds of problems with electronic things. Her direct deposit paychecks had been somehow diverted to a school for wayward girls in Maine. Her driver's license couldn't be renewed because a computer glitch said she was twelve years old. They had seemed a handful of annoying coincidences. Now they seemed like a coordinated attack.

No, not an attack. A warning.

And if she chased _this_ story, if she actually located the elusive hacker …

She was afraid to think was an all-out attack by this woman would look like.

Maxine sat up and squared her shoulders. She hadn't backed down from mob assassins or HR's dirty cops. She sure as hell wasn't going to back down from some hacker.

For one minute, she let herself wish that the Man in the Suit was real, and that he'd show up to help her.

Then she put it aside and got back to work.

Hospital records. Nothing. Ingram's history. Non-existent. Julie Carson? _Nada_.

She searched until her shoulders ached and her fingers went numb. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. An impossible amount of nothing.

Instead of the Man in the Suit, her salvation came in the shape of a librarian.

"Is there something I can help you with?" a woman asked.

Maxine looked up. The woman was middle-aged, an attractive Latina with flawless skin and great understated fashion sense. "I doubt it," she said wearily. "Unless you can tell me where to find Scotty Fitzgerald."

The woman shrugged. "If she's not at Chaos, they usually know where she is."

Angelis blinked. "What?"

"I mean, she never keeps regular business hours, but if she's not there you can leave a message or something."

The reporter felt her mouth fall open. _Get it together, Angelis. Cover_. She closed her mouth and nodded. "I should have thought of that. Thanks."

"Easiest research question I've had all day." The woman smiled warmly and moved off.

Maxine sighed deeply and sat back. She rubbed her fingers until the feeling came back into them, rolled her shoulders to work the kinks out. "Chaos," she said to herself. "Now what the hell is Chaos?"

She grinned and reached for her keyboard again.

* * *

Despite the rain, Reese took Bear out for a long walk. The dog needed the exercise, and John had a decent raincoat with a hood, so he didn't really mind the rain. It kept the pedestrian traffic down, and he and the dog strode through the city streets unimpeded.

It felt good to get out and stretch his legs. But it felt good to get back to the warmth of the library, too. Reese left his raincoat near the side entrance, then took Bear upstairs and dried him thoroughly with a towel.

Finch glanced over from his computer, amused. "Nice walk?"

"Worked the kinks out. Anything new?"

"Nothing."

John kicked his shoes off and put them to the side. He gave Bear a snack and made sure he had fresh water. Then he drifted around the side of the desk. Harold didn't immediately toggle his screen off, which was a good sign. He glanced over his shoulder. "Just updating some of my systems," he said. He gestured to a side screen. "And monitoring the _New York Journal_."

"We don't usually go this long without a new Number."

"It's only been one full day," Finch pointed out.

"You think Kara's virus is slowing it down?"

"It's possible." Harold frowned at his screen. Despite his off-hand answer, he'd obviously given that possibility a great deal of thought.

"Or maybe your machine is too busy cleaning up from the missile attack to pay attention to the irrelevants right now."

Finch shook his head. "The Machine is capable of paying attention to a great many things at the same time. If it's not giving us Numbers … perhaps it's because no one is planning any murders at this time."

He sounded more hopeful than convinced.

"Or it's the virus," Finch conceded.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"No. And neither can I. All we can do is make sure we're ready for whatever comes along next." He sighed heavily, reached for his keyboard, then dropped his hands into his lap again. Reese recognized the gesture. Finch wanted to do something, _anything_. But there was nothing to be done.

Harold glanced up. "How's your arm, by the way?"

Now that he'd mentioned it, Reese felt his stitches begin to itch vaguely again. He rubbed his arm lightly over his jacket. "Could probably use a dressing change," he admitted.

"Of course. One moment."

Reese peeled off his jacket and headed to the back room to get the supplies. He was more than capable of changing his own bandages, but since the wound was high on the back of his arm it would be easier to let Finch do it. Besides, he knew his partner wanted to check the extent of the injury for himself.

And to get his first look at Christine's stitching ability.

Since John had already decided that, given the choice, he would always turn to the woman for stitches in the future, letting Finch verify her competence for himself seemed like a good choice.

Besides, the genius needed a distraction.

* * *

"Chaos," the man on the phone barked.

"Is Scotty there?" Maxine asked. She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

"Nah, she just left. Wanna leave a message?"

"Ummmm … I need to reach her right away. Could I have her cell number?"

There was a brief pause. "If she wanted you to have her cell, she would have given it to you. Message?"

"N-no. Thanks."

The call went dead.

Angelis sighed. Not helpful. But at least she knew she was on the right track. That was progress. Finally.

It was still raining outside, but she didn't care.

She'd found her quarry.


	7. Chapter 7

The four men had cleared away the sleeping bags and set up a card table. They played poker all morning, using pennies for chips. By mid-afternoon the teenager was busted. He watched for a while more, then announced that he was bored and going for a walk, despite the rain.

The minute the door closed behind him, Nekl tossed his cards down. "Where's he going, Len?"

"He said he was going out for a walk."

"I don't like it," Peterson agreed. "He went out last night, too."

"He's out of money," Andreani told them. "He's going to the soup kitchen for food."

Nekl snorted. "I think he's going to meet with the cops."

"Cash? He's not going to rat us out." Andreani shook his head. "He's not that smart."

"But what if he is?" Peterson said. "What do we know about that kid? He's just some stray we picked up."

"We needed someone who knew their way around the city, remember?" Len argued.

"But he wasn't with us over there," Nekl replied. "How do we know he's really with us?"

"I don't like it," his companion agreed. "We were all going to stay together until we got paid. I don't like him sneaking out."

"Then go follow him," Andreani suggested. "Go see where he goes. If he's talking to cops, we'll take care of it. But I'm telling you, he's not."

The other two went silent for a moment. The rain splattered fitfully against the tiny window again; neither of them especially wanted to go out in it.

"We're just sayin'," Nekl said. "That Brit guy scares me. If Cash rats us out, that guy'll end all of us."

Andreani shook his head. "He's just a kid. He's hungry. Don't worry about it." He picked up his cards. "You gonna play or not?"

Nekl picked up his own cards. "I'll play."

Peterson wasn't convinced. He stewed about it for another hand. Then he shoved back from the table and went to get his coat.

* * *

Carter knocked against the locked door of the Pulaski Building's lobby. The security guard at the console waved her away impatiently. She pulled out her shield and held it flat against the glass. Reluctantly, and not quickly, he came over and let them in.

"What's up, Officer?" he asked with exaggerated politeness. He was probably in his late twenties and she could tell from five paces that he didn't wash his uniform as often as he needed to.

"I'm _Detective_ Carter," Joss told him, "and this is _Detective_ Fusco. We're investigating the break-in at the bank last week."

"Jesus, more cops?" He pushed the door open further and let them in. "They're in there," he said, pointing toward the bank on the far side of the lobby.

The glass doors to the bank were propped open. There were lights on inside, and many people moving around.

"They're not closed?" Fusco asked, surprised.

"They're fixing stuff. Said you said it was okay."

Carter nodded. "Don't go away. We'll want to talk to you."

"I don't know anything. I wasn't working that night."

"We'll still want to talk to you."

They walked across the empty lobby to the bank.

Inside, two men in khaki pants and pale blue shirts with the bank's logo on the breast were installing cameras. A third was on ladder, hooking up a new camera. A fourth man, older, in khakis and a red polo shirt, was pacing around impatiently. "Hello?" Carter called.

The man in red turned. "I'm sorry, we're not open …"

The detectives flashed their badges in unison. The man's face fell. "We were told it was okay to put things back together …"

"We're not here to stop you," Carter assured him. "Are you the branch manager?"

"Tony Hansen."

Carter introduced herself and Fusco again. The man looked like he might recognize Fusco, but he didn't seem to know from where. Carter didn't remind him that her partner had been there during the bomb threat the week before.

"I spoke to the other detectives …" Hansen began.

"We've been added to the investigation," Fusco explained. "We wanted to have a look around, get a feel for the crime scene."

"Oh." He looked around at the workers. "Are these guys in your way?"

"No," Carter assured him. "They're fine. We're just going to walk around, okay?"

"Sure, sure. Whatever you need."

Carter looked out the side doors. Like the lobby doors, they were the standard double-door set-up: Two doors separated by an aluminum post, one opening inward and the other swinging out. The glass in the outward-opening door was new; the stickers were still on it. Of course, they'd only have to break one door; they could open the other once they were inside. But that center post, she realized, limited the size of the cart they could use.

Beyond the doors she could see the wet sidewalk. It was six feet from the door to the curb. There were cars parked all along the far side of the street. She made a mental note to see if there was opposite side parking. If not, and the burglars had parked legally, it would have added fifteen feet to their escape route. That probably didn't mean anything, but it was a detail she wanted to clarify. Also, she wondered if there was legal parking available, even at four in the morning. That might help somehow.

Something else. There was no cut at the crosswalk. It was an eight-inch drop from the top of the curb to the street. So either they'd parked on the near side and had a ramp, or they'd bumped the cart of computers over that edge.

"They're need a ramp either way," Carter realized.

"What?"

She looked at Fusco, who was standing at her elbow. "If they took the equipment on a cart, they needed a ramp onto the vehicle."

"Delivery vehicles pretty much all have ramps," he said. "A van or something? They'd have to unload into it."

"And time was tight." She considered. "That makes a bigger vehicle more likely."

"Most of the delivery vehicles we checked had schedule drops," Fusco said.

"Or they said they did."

She turned and looked around the bank again. The doors into the office building were off to the left, so the guard looking through the door wouldn't have seen the broken glass from the side door. Cameras and alarm should have caught everything, but they'd been disabled.

The burglars hadn't had much time to prepare, she realized. The missile crisis had been on Wednesday afternoon, and the break-in had taken place early the next morning. To have scouted out the place, gotten into the security system, determined the building guard's schedule …

There was some serious, serious tech knowledge behind this burglary.

And there was no reason to think that that kind of knowledge hadn't been factored into the escape as well.

"What are you thinking?" Fusco asked.

"That we should have called our brilliant friend yesterday." She walked across the bank and back to the double lobby doors. From there she could see the security console clearly. She took two steps to her left and it was out of sight. But the guard hadn't been there anyhow.

"What's that?" Fusco pointed toward the bottom of the center post.

Carter looked at the floor. There was a faint scuff mark on the granite floor of the bank. It was about six inches long, an inch wide. It looked like dust. She crouched and touched it with her finger; it wiped away. "Dust," she said. "From a wheel, maybe."

He raised an eyebrow. "Like the wheel of a cart?"

"Exactly like that. Good eye, Fusco." Carter walked out into the building lobby again. "So they brought the cart out this way … and did what with it?" She looked around. To the rear of the lobby were two banks of elevators. To the front were a pair of escalators to the open mezzanine; there were conference rooms on that level. She walked to one of the elevator corridors. At the back was another door. "What's back here?" she called to the guard.

"Service area," he called back. "Housekeeping, bathrooms, locker room. Loading dock."

"Son of a bitch," Fusco said. "These bold bastards wheeled the computers out right through the lobby."

Carter nodded. The lobby door had a panic bar for safety; it could be pushed open from the inside even if it was locked. Normally an alarm would sound, but of course it had been disconnected. "If they propped this door open, they could have brought the cart _in _from the dock, loaded it up, and wheeled it right back out." She whistled softly. "Oh, they knew _exactly_ what they were doing here."

"We need to see the loading dock," Fusco told the guard.

He grumbled, but picked up his key ring and came to join them. "Usually quiet here on weekends," he said.

"We'll try to make it quick so you can get back to your nap," Carter promised.

"Porn," Fusco corrected under his breath.

Joss bit back a laugh. They followed the guard through another set of doors, down a wide corridor, and to an open storage space. Beyond were a man-door and two overhead garage doors.

Against the near wall were half a dozen blue recycling bins, four feet high and two feet on a side. They had lids that swung up at the top, but each was secured with a small padlock on a hasp. There was a wide slot in each lid to allow them to be filled with papers.

The floor of the dock was very dusty.

"What are these?" Fusco asked.

"Recycling bins," the guard answered. "Paper only."

Carter walked down the row, jiggling each container. They were all empty. "You always have this many stored here?"

He shook his head. "Usually only a couple. But all the offices are still cleaning up from year-end, throwing out old files."

"So these go up to the offices," Carter said, "they fill them up, send them back down?"

"Yeah. Then the shredding company picks them up and brings back empties."

"How often do they pick up?"

"Every Friday night. More often if we run out of empties."

The detectives looked at each other.

"You keep track," Fusco asked, "of where the bins come from?"

"What?"

"Is there any way to know," Carter explained, "which companies filled up which bins?"

"No." The guard looked confused. "It's trash, who cares? They all get shredded."

"So however many bins are here when they pick up they take."

"Yeah. Well, they sign for the number the pick up before they leave the dock. Some certificate of destruction thing."

"Were you here yesterday?" Carter asked.

"Yeah."

"How many did they pick up?" Fusco asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know. Twelve, fourteen. Fourteen."

"But you thought there were twelve at first?" Carter pressed.

"Yeah, I guess. Like I said, I don't count 'em. The driver tells me how many he took, I write it on the board, we both sign, we both get a copy."

"I'm going to need a copy of that form," Carter said.

The guard sighed. "Yeah, okay."

"Now, please."

He grumbled and left the dock.

"They didn't bring a cart," Fusco said. "They just came down here and got one."

"Two," Carter said. "Pop the lock, load it up, bring it back."

"And let them haul the stuff out for you. It's slick."

She nodded, very pleased. "It's slick."

"We need to get to that recycling place."

Carter started to agree. Then she stopped. "We need to call Moss."

"Oh, yeah." Fusco frowned. "Yeah."

"Hey, at least we don't have to chase around in the rain anymore."

"You got a point there."

* * *

Maxine Angelis sat at the counter at the front of the old bar and looked around. The place was a dive. None of the tables or chairs matched. The woodwork was old and battered. There was a sunken couch in front of a grubby fireplace, and two equally faded cushioned chairs. It smelled like coffee, mostly, but there was a distinct undertone of human sweat and overheated electronics.

It was nearly noon, but the place was mostly empty.

Behind what had been the bar, a very big man with a bushy mustache was putting mugs away. "What do you want?" he called loudly.

"What?"

"There's no table service. You want coffee, come over and get it."

"Oh." Maxine stood up and walked over. Up close the guy looked even bigger. He was probably sixty, but his upper arms were as big around as her waist and it was all muscle. "Just coffee," she said. "House blend, whatever."

He poured her a mug full and pushed it across the bar. "Two bucks."

She dug the bills out of her wallet and gave them to him. He started away. "Wait," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

He waited.

She brought out the folded Journal she carried. "This woman. Do you know her?"

The big man looked at the picture, then at her. He slapped her bills back on the bar and took her coffee. "Get out."

"This is Scotty Fitzgerald, right? The owner of this place?"

"Out."

"I just want to talk to her …"

The bell over the door jangled, and two uniformed policemen walked in. At least, Angelis was pretty sure they were actual policemen: The younger one looked so young he might have been a Boy Scout playing dress-up.

"I don't want any trouble," Maxine insisted. "I'd just like to talk to her, get her side of this story. I can offer her protection from Ingram and his people."

The cops had reached the counter. The big guy poured them both coffee and handed it over without asking for payment. Then he looked at her and pointed again. "Out."

"Free coffee for cops?" she asked. "Isn't that a violation?"

The older of the two sipped his coffee, unimpressed. "Problem?" he asked.

Angelis shoved the newspaper at them. "I'm trying to find this woman. Scotty Fitzgerald. Do you know her?"

They both looked at the big barista.

"She won't leave," he said.

The younger cop said, "I think that's trespassing, isn't it?"

"Pretty sure it is," his partner answered.

"Are you kidding me?" she demanded. "All I'm trying to do is get both sides of this story. Which I think the police department is covering up, by the way, because of Ingram's money …"

"Maybe resisting arrest," the older cop added.

Maxine looked at the big guy. "You can't do this. The people have the right to know the truth. You can't stifle the press this way."

"Out!" he thundered.

"I will find out," she said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "I'll get to the bottom of this story with or without your help. And I'll be sure to mention the free coffee."

"You do that," the older cop said.

"Best coffee in the city," the Boy Scout advised.

Angelis stopped just outside the café and looked around. There was an old post office across the street, now closed. She could wait there for the woman to return. But her research had only been preliminary: She knew Fitzgerald owned the Chaos Café, but she didn't know if the woman was involved in the day-to-day operation of the business. It might be a damn long wait.

Also, the cops were still watching her.

She walked back to her car slowly. She needed more information. But she finally had a place to sink her teeth in. And she was not going to let go.

* * *

The young man was up to his elbows in soapy dishwater.

"You don't have to work for your supper," Will Robinson told him gently.

The boy shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I ate. I just … didn't have anywhere else to be. Figured I might as well make myself useful."

Robinson took a plate out of the drainer and dried it. "Seems to me like you might need a better job, son."

"No, I get paid Monday. It's okay. I just need to fill in the gap a bit."

"You got a place to stay?"

"Yeah. I'm staying with friends. I'm good."

"Sometimes the people you call friends," the older man said, "they can get you into situations. Into trouble you never intended to get into."

Clay rinsed another bowl. "Sometimes they get you out of trouble."

"That's true, too. I suppose the trick it figuring out which ones they are before the trouble comes."

The boy concentrated on his chore. "I'll be fine. But thank you."

"Uh-huh. Well, you need anything, there's always someone here can help you."

"I know. I appreciate that."

"Sure you don't want some soup? Chicken vegetable tonight. It's good."

The boy smiled. "No, I'm fine. Thanks."

Robinson stayed near the boy, drying dishes, but the young man didn't offer to share any more, and he didn't press.

* * *

Outside the soup kitchen, Peterson turned his collar up. He grabbed one of the men headed for the door of the soup kitchen. "Hey. Got a question for you."

The man looked startled and frightened. "I ain't got no money, I swear."

Peterson dug in his pocket, came up with a ten dollar bill. "Here. You can have this if you answer my question."

The man looked up and down the street furtively. "What's your question?"

"The man inside there, the black man. He a nark?"

"For the cops? Robinson?"

"Is he or not?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"You ever seen him talking to cops?"

"Yeah, sometimes. They come looking for people sometimes. He don't want no criminals around here."

"So he might be helping them."

"I don't know." The man's eyes got wider. "I don't know, I swear."

"Okay. Okay." The thief gave him the bill and let him go.

The man looked at the money, then at the door to the soup kitchen. He changed his mind about his dinner plans and scurried off in the other direction.

Peterson headed back for the apartment.

* * *

Harold Finch raised his hand to knock on the front door. It opened before his knuckles reached it. Christine pulled the door all the way open. "You can let yourself in, you know."

Harold entered the apartment, slipped off his coat. "This is your home now. I'm trying to respect your boundaries."

"Well, that's new." She took his coat and hung it on a hook beside the door.

The room was finally complete. The walls were painted a lovely glowing golden color. The furniture had been uncovered and moved into place. There was even a crackling fire in the new fireplace. It was gas-fed, of course, but it looked like a natural wood fire. It was a beautiful space.

By the front windows, the elaborate whirligig that Will and Julie had bought her the say she was shot was spinning softly in the breezes from the furnace vent.

The built-in bookshelves on each side of the hearth were still empty, but Harold was sure that wouldn't last.

From down the hall, he heard a roar of laughter and then half a dozen young, excited voices. "You have company?" he asked, surprised.

"My mover elves. They're gaming in the dead space."

"Really." That surprised him; he'd expected that she would chase them out the moment the boxes were in so she could set up her space precisely as she wanted it. But there was something deeply comforting about her having a houseful of people on such a dreary afternoon. "Good for you."

"Can we talk a minute before the others get here?"

"Of course."

She led him into her office, off the library, and pushed the door most of the way shut. It blocked most of the noise from the D&D game. Harold glanced at her computer screens, and was not surprised to find that the _New York Journal_ was displayed on two of them. He settled into one of the big wing-backed chairs. It was brand new and unexpectedly comfortable. Christine sat across from him, on the edge of her chair.

"I'm very stressed," she said, "and we don't have a lot of time, so I'm just gonna be blunt. The thing with John is a non-starter. But I have moved officially out of Chaos. If I agree to this thing with Will and Julie, if I work with them for a year, get their project off the ground … what else in on your agenda?"

"My … agenda?" Finch asked.

"Your agenda for me. Your _Make Christine's Life Better_ agenda."

"Christine. I've told Mr. Reese, and I will gladly promise you, I had nothing to do with the release of that photo …"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

He looked around the spacious office. There were windows on two walls, and even on a dreary day like today, it was light and open. Welcoming. It was very much what he'd wanted for Christine. He'd been fairly sure it was what she'd wanted, too. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to … to …"

A few miles away, Grace Hendricks was spending this rainy day in the arms of her new lover, without the slightest idea that he'd been put in her path by her 'dead' fiancé. But Christine was not Grace. Christine knew so much more about him.

He'd _permitted_ Christine to know so much more about him.

"Random," Christine said calmly, "I'm not mad. I'm not even protesting, much. I know that you want what's best for me. I just need to know what else you want. Put it on the table. Tell me now and let me decide. It'll be easier for both of us."

Harold sat back. "I don't have an agenda," he said carefully. "I certainly haven't tried to implement one. I've just … tried to offer you the best possible choices. To make you aware of options that you might not have considered …"

He hadn't put Grace in bed with Gregg Everett. He'd only arranged for them to meet. Everything since then had been her choice, and the photographer's.

Whether Christine entered a partnership with Will and Julie was her choice…

"Just tell me what else is on deck," she asked gently.

She had a way, he thought, not for the first time, of getting to him. Open aggression, shouting or screaming, threats or protests, he would have ignored easily. But when she spoke to him like this, openly and calmly, he was inclined to grant anything she asked. She knew that, of course. She used it. The same way he used what he knew about her psychological make-up to persuade her.

Interacting with Christine Fitzgerald was very much like playing chess with Carl Elias, minus the necessity of proving himself a worthy opponent.

"If you work with Will and Julie for a year," Finch finally said, "I am confident that further challenges and choices will present themselves without my further intervention."

She sat back in her chair and pulled one foot up under her. She wasn't hugging her knees; her posture stayed open. "How are you seeing this?"

"For Will and Julie – they need an expert and you're absolutely the best they can hope for. For you," he chose his words very carefully, "you set out to fix your little corner of the world, and you've done an admirable job. I think – _I _think – you're ready for wider horizons. I think you're ready to fix the world. But of course the choice is entirely yours."

"You think the three of us can fix the whole world?"

"Of course not. But if you _try_ to fix the whole world of it, I think you will definitely succeed in fixing parts of it." He nodded to himself. "You know the story of the beach covered with dying starfish, don't you?"

"Walk along and throw as many as you can back into the water. You can't save them all, but you can save some." She cocked her head. "Like you and the Numbers."

"Yes. We can't hope to save them all. But the ones we can save – sometimes turn out to be people like you."

She shook her head. "Your expectations terrify me. You know that, don't you?"

Harold leaned forward. "Christine. I never meant for that. I assure you, I … you expect yourself to take care of everyone around you, even me. I have only ever expected that you would continue to surprise me. Which you do, on a daily basis." He caught her hand. "If you decide to join Will and Julie, of course I'll be pleased. But if you don't, I assure you that you will not have failed my expectations. I will only think that's you've chosen another path for yourself. A better path."

"And if my path is running a cyber café?"

"Then I'm sure you'll do it very well."

She studied him for a long moment. "I did wonder," she finally said, "where Will learned that particular trick."

"What trick?"

"Of winning an argument by conceding it."

"Have I won this one, then?"

Christine smirked. "You won it yesterday and you know it."

A roar went up from the adjoining room.

"I'd better go check on them before the others get here," she said. She stood, learned to kiss Harold on the cheek, and then left the room.

Finch was careful to hide his broad smile until she was out of the room. He looked around the airy room again. Two out of three, he decided. Not bad. Not bad at all.


	8. Chapter 8

Brian Moss finally showed up with the search warrant. Adam Aviles and two other agents were with him.

"I thought we were going low-key on this," Carter grumbled. Two hours in a car with Fusco and no coffee had taken the glow off their discovery – if the computer equipment was even still inside.

"This is low-key," Moss answered.

They left the two extra agents by the gate. The plant manager, whose name was Smith, met them there; she was a short-haired, no-nonsense woman in her sixties who was not happy about having been called from home. "We shred paper," she announced tartly as she carefully read the warrant. "There's no computers here."

"I hope you're wrong," Carter answered.

They went into what the manager told them was the main processing room. It wasn't as big as Carter had expected, just two big commercial shredders in the middle of an open warehouse, with big dumpsters of shredded paper on the far side and roughly three hundred locked blue bins in neat rows on the near side.

Joss took her flashlight off her belt and started down the back row, knocking on each bin as she went. They each thudded. Some were more full than others, but they all contained paper.

"Do you know where any of these came from?" Moss asked.

Smith shook her head. "They get logged it at the dock when they come in. After that they just get lined up."

"We're gonna need the keys," Fusco said.

"And the log," Carter added.

The manager grabbed a handful off the hook on the wall and started to pass them out. "They're all the same," she said. "I'm telling you, there's no computers here. It's just paper."

"We'll see."

They started opening bins.

* * *

Maxine Angelis sat in her parked car, down the block from the café. She watched through her rain-spattered windshield as people came and went. None of them were her quarry. Yet.

Her phone chirped and she answered it happily. "Hey, Glen, good. Listen. I found out who Ingram's mystery woman is."

"I know," he answered tersely.

"Okay, listen. Her name is Christine Fitzgerald. She runs a cyber café called Chaos. She's …"

"Max. Stop. You're done with this story. It's over."

"No, Glen, but listen. I'm outside Chaos now. I went in, but these beat cops chased me out. _Beat cops_. Which means –"

"Maxine, it's over. Put it to bed."

" – which means I was right, the cops are in on this, there's a cover-up and it's got legs, this is big, this is really big and –"

"_Maxine_. We're not printing the story."

Angelis stopped. "Why the hell not?"

"For starters, because our entire system crashed. And that probably has everything to do with the fact that Scotty Fitzgerald is one of the best hackers in the city."

"So get somebody in to fix it. God, Glen, don't you realize what that means? That means she's …"

"It's back up. We were down for five minutes. It was a warning shot."

"And you're going to let her scare you off? Just like that?"

"It wasn't just us, Max."

"What?"

"O'Connor went down, too."

O'Connor was the owner of the paper. He owned at least part of fifteen different businesses, and he generally kept his hands off the day-to-day operation of the _Journal_. "Which company?"

"All of them."

Maxine felt her breath catch. To hack the _New York Journal_ was one thing. To hack fifteen different companies … "But Glen – we're just going to surrender to the hackers? That's it?"

"The word came straight from the top. For a whole lot of reasons. Starting with Christopher Zambrano. This is celebrity gossip. They want you back on hard news."

"A police cover-up, wide-spread hacking, extortion of the free press? That's not hard news?"

"Maxine. We're done talking about this. This story is over. This paper will not print another word about Will Ingram unless it's an official press released from his people. We're done. Go home. Start on something new tomorrow."

"Glen …"

"I'm not going to tell you again. You pester anyone involved with this story again and I'll fire you."

"I'm your best reporter."

"You were," her editor said tersely, "until you turned into an Ingram fangirl."

"I am not a …" Angelis stopped, because her phone was dead.

Not disconnected from the call. Not out of battery. Not out of bars. Just dead.

She pushed buttons. She powered it off and back on. The screen said, NO SERVICE.

Maxine swore and bashed her phone against her steering wheel.

That didn't improve her reception.

She threw it onto her passenger seat and started her car.

She was furious. And she was frightened. Whoever this Fitzgerald woman was, she was a lot more than the owner of a coffee shop. And whatever she and Ingram were up to …

Four blocked from the café, her phone chirped back to life.

The message was perfectly clear: She had been warned.

She was not going to back down.

* * *

"I think," Zoe Morgan pronounced, with only a little more confidence than she actually felt, "we have them handled. We'll need to keep an eye on them, of course, but I don't think the _Journal_ is going to print another word about this."

"Pity," Christine muttered. "They're so much fun to hack."

"I feel like I ought to say something here about the rights of a free press," Julie said without enthusiasm.

"They're free to print anything they like, as long as they don't piss me off."

"So Plan A," Will said, "is to shut up Maxine Angelis and the _Journal _and hope it all blows over."

Zoe nodded. "Friday morning we do a press release announcing your engagement. Friday afternoon, if we have to, you'll do a brief interview and photo op with a couple credible journalists, give them a thirty-second filler on the evening news. Saturday you hole up here in the hotel and go to the birthday party, where there will also be reporters and you will also make nice. Sunday you fly out of here for a month, as planned. By the time you get back, it should be gone."

"They're going to ask about the photo," Julie predicted.

"And you'll answer them," Zoe said. "She's a friend of the family. She was injured earlier in the day; she suffered complications overnight which required medical intervention. She's since recovered fully. And you ask that they respect her privacy. Then you move on."

"And if they don't?" Will pressed. "What's Plan B?"

"Plan B is to be aggressive. To sit the three of you down with someone like Matt Lauer and talk about your new company. And how Christine's going to be your partner and information officer. Again, when they ask about the picture, you blow them off and steer the conversation back to renewable energy."

"We're not ready to roll that out yet," Julie protested. "We don't even have a name for it."

"It doesn't matter. You have a concept. Come up with a name. You're starting to gather information. You can fill ten minutes of air time. What matters is that all three of you are out there together. Scandals are fueled by secrecy. Once it's clear that there's no secret, the scandal dies."

"Christine," Harold asked quietly, "are you alright with all of this?"

Zoe watched the other woman closely. She wasn't one to be jealous, especially when it interfered with business. She and Reese had been strictly friends-with-benefits; she'd enjoyed their time together, but she'd always known he'd be looking for commitment when he got over whoever the last woman was. She hadn't expected it to be _this_ woman, though; Christine Fitzgerald seemed as commitment-shy as Zoe herself was. So maybe it was a passing fancy on John's part, or a mild delusion that had already been shot down. Scotty did not act like a woman who'd recently taken a new lover. Zoe was pretty good at reading the signs.

So she was pretty sure she wasn't seeing things through the filter of her own wishful thinking when she saw the almost tangible connection between Christine and _Harold_. Though the man barely spoke to her, he never stopped watching her. And though Harold was, in Zoe's experience, always careful with people, he was being especially careful with her today.

Maybe, she reasoned, that was because he knew the young woman was under stress. But maybe there was something more.

Knowing about people was Zoe Morgan's stock and trade. The two of them bore watching.

"I don't think I have much choice," Christine answered grimly. "But Plan C is we burn them all to the ground, right?"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Zoe said. "And please don't ever say anything like that in public."

The hacker shrugged.

"Soooo," Will said, looking to Christine, "does this mean you're in?"

"I'm in for the start-up," she conceded. "We'll give it a year and see where we are."

"That's great!" Will lunged out of his chair and leaned over her to give her a hug. "Thank you."

"_That's_ going to be a problem," Zoe said mildly. One outburst like that in public and she'd never be able to shut the press up.

"He does that with everyone," Julie told her.

"It's still going to be a problem."

The young billionaire grinned and returned to his own seat.

Through the closed down in the hall, they all heard a number of voices squeal and then roar with laughter.

"How many kids do you have in there?" Morgan demanded.

"Six. Seven."

The fixer sighed. "That may be a problem, too."

"They are playing a possibly-Satanic board game," Christine agreed. "One of them may become possessed by the spirit of a Kobold."

"What's a … never mind. Please don't say things like that in public, either." She was starting to sound like an old scold even in her own ears.

"So we need a name," Julie said, "and to start looking for office space."

"Ground floor here," Christine answered.

"What?"

"It'll do, for a start, and I won't have to commute. Unless you'd rather have somewhere big and shiny."

Ingram shook his head. "No, I don't need a giant chrome tower. That was my dad's gig." He looked to Julie. "This could work."

"You'll outgrow it, eventually," Christine predicted. "But it'll work for now."

"Can we build an apartment on the second floor?" Julie asked.

Christine stared at her. Then she turned her head and stared pointedly at Harold. He threw his hands up defensively. "I swear, that's the first I've heard of that idea."

"Can we?" Will pressed. "That would cut everybody's commute down to nothing. And this place turned out great."

Zoe had to admit, Fitzgerald's control of her facial expressions was almost perfect. The only thing that gave her away was a little muscle at her jaw that tensed and released.

"We'll buy steaks for the grill out back," Julie promised. "We could have staff meetings on the patio."

"We can put a coffee bar in the office," Will added. "And a fireplace, anything you want."

"You know we're good for the rent. You'd never have to worry about covering the mortgage."

"I don't have a mortgage."

"You … oh."

"We could put a solar array on the roof," Will continued. "And a windmill, too."

"You'll never get zoned for a windmill there," Harold murmured.

"Just a little one," Ingram argued. "Mostly for show."

"You're talking about a compound now," Zoe said. "All three of you living and working together in the same building … the press will go crazy. They will _never_ stop talking about what they think's going on in here."

Unexpectedly, that turned out to be the right thing to say. Christine's jaw relaxed. Her chin came up. And a glint of mischief took over her eyes. "Then let 'em talk," she said defiantly.

In that moment, Zoe recognized how the hacker had captured John Reese's devotion.

Harold, she noted, sat very still and stayed silent, as if he were completely disinterested. But she could feel his focus like a physical thing.

The young couple looked at each other. Then they looked at Christine. Then they looked at Zoe.

"You should give it a name," she said with resignation. "Shangri-la or Camelot Two or some such thing."

"What's the opposite of Chaos?" Will asked.

"Boredom," Christine answered immediately.

"I was thinking something _order_, but that sounds a little ominous," Julie contributed.

Harold cleared his throat delicately. "I was rather hoping you'd come to see it as something of an … oasis."

They went silent for a moment.

Ingram said, quietly, "I like it."

Christine got up, crossed behind Harold, and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. "As you wish."

* * *

None of the three hundred and nine recycling bins contained anything but paper. Fusco sighed heavily. "You got a mens room around here?"

The silver-haired woman pointed to a dingy hallway on the far side of the space. The sign over the door said 'Emergency Exit'. Fusco raised an eyebrow, but he walked that way. The hallway was deeper than it looked, and there was a grimy bathroom off to one side.

There were also, just before the exit door, two more blue bins, covered with a tarp.

Fusco looked over his shoulder quickly. Then he tapped the shape under the tarp. The sound it made was very different from the sound of a paper-filled bin. He lifted the covering. There was a note taped to the front of the bin, torn off a pad of log pages and hand-written in black mark: SENT IN ERROR. DO NOT SHRED. CLIENT WILL PICK UP MONDAY.

The detective lifted the tarp just far enough to see that there was a similar sign on the other bin.

He pulled out his phone and silenced it, then dropped it into the slot on the top of the nearest bin. Then he dropped the cover back into place and stepped into the men's room.

When he came out, as he expected, the plant manager was standing right at the end of the hallway, watching him. He held his hands up, palms toward her. "Yeah, I washed 'em, see?"

"Huh," she snorted.

Moss and Aviles came back from walking through the few offices and side rooms. "Nothing," Moss said. "You?"

"Not a damn thing," Fusco said. "Can we get out of here now?"

Carter shook her head, disappointed. "This is the only thing that makes sense."

"Even if they used our bins to steal these computers you keep goin' on about," Smith said, "there's nothing says they brought them here."

"Are you missing any bins?" Carter asked.

"Well … not that I know of. But the inventory floats. Say we signed out six bins to a property, we pick up four, we drop off four, we figure they still have the other two somewhere, you know?"

"Yes, but …" Carter began.

Fusco cut her off. "You're been very helpful, Ms. Smith. If anyone reports any bins missing, anything irregular like that, you give us a yell, will you?" He gave her one of his cards. "Sorry to drag you down here like this. Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

Carter glared at him behind the woman's back, but she didn't argue. She let him hustle her and the FBI agents out of the building and out to the parking lot. The four of them huddled between their cars; at least the rain died into a dull drizzle. "What'd you find?" she demanded.

"I found the computers," Fusco announced. "In the back hallway, in bins just like you thought, covered by a tarp."

"And Smith knows they're there?" Moss asked.

"Oh, yeah, she knows. Customer's supposed to pick them up on Monday."

"So why didn't we just arrest her and take them?" Aviles asked.

"Because we don't want the computers," Carter answered. "We want the guys who stole them, and the guys who hired the guys who stole them."

"Good work, detectives," Moss said. He started to give an order, then stopped himself and looked at them. "How do you want to handle this?"

"We all get in our cars and leave," Fusco said. "Then your extra men find a place to park down the road and watch the front gate. Carter and I will drive around back and cover that gate. If Smith is spooked, she may try to move up the pick-up."

"And you two go round up duplicate computer equipment," Carter added. "One of everything. If you can't find it, Scotty Fitzgerald can probably help. Be quick about it. If there's no pick-up, after Smith leaves we'll go swap them out, just to be on the safe side."

"We can put a tracker on the decoys," Aviles suggested.

"I wouldn't," Carter answered. "The buyer can take down all the surveillance in six city blocks, I'm pretty sure he can check for tracking devices."

"Well, for the moment, my cell phone's in one of those bins, and I'd like to get it back in one piece," Fusco said.

Moss said. "I like it. It's a little unconventional, but I like it."

"It gets the job done," Carter answered.

The rain began to fall harder, and they scrambled for their cars.

* * *

"The Carson-Fitzgerald-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative," Will pronounced, looking around the empty space of the ground floor.

"No," Christine answered, just as firmly. "No way in hell you're putting my name on this turkey."

"But you're going to be the one doing all the work," Julie argued playfully. "Can we really have a fireplace? That would be so cozy on days like this."

"We could have a lap pool if you want," Will answered.

Christine looked at him. "No. Yes, fireplace. No, lap pool. Lap _dances, _on the other hand, are entirely optional."

"Ooooh. Stripper pole?"

"We prefer to call the firemen's poles," his fiancée told him.

"I can go either way on that one."

Both women laughed, and Will grinned agreeably. "Yeah, yeah. Don't say that in public."

"I do not envy Miss Morgan her job," Christine commented. "There's no point in having a fireplace if we don't have seating to lounge around in front of it."

"Does anybody ever sit at desks anymore?" Julie asked. "I mean, if they don't have to? I just take my laptop and plop on the couch or the bed or the floor."

"You're thinking no offices?" Will echoed. "Just beds scattered around?"

"I want an office," Christine insisted. "With a door. And no interior windows."

"Anything you like," Julie assured her. "But for everybody else, maybe something more flexible. Adaptable."

"And it goes without saying it has to be sustainable," Will added.

"Maybe …" Christine began. "Open space, movable furniture. Fireplace with conversation pit is fixed, and my office and a server room, but everything else sort of floats. Retractable screens, portable work stations, bigger tables for collaboration. Space to bring in new tech to try it out."

"Kind of like a salad bar of office space," Will said.

"Oh, we need a kitchen," Julie realized. "Nothing big, but with a table. Work gets done around kitchen tables."

"We'll need a little space for your security guys, too," Christine mused. "Maybe a …"

"Scotty!" Taylor called from the open doorway. "Hey, Miss Scotty?"

"Over here."

He walked over, holding his phone out. "I'm sorry, my mom wants to talk to you." He glanced at the people with her. "She said it's not urgent, you can call her back …"

"No, it's okay." Christine took the phone. "Julie Carson, Will Ingram, Taylor Carter." And then, into the phone, "Hey, Joss."

As she moved off to the side of the room, Will shook the tall teenager's hand, and then Julie did. "I'm really sorry," Taylor said. "I didn't know you were working or … whatever."

"Mostly whatever," Will assured him. "Trying to figure out how to set up our offices."

"Offices for what?"

"The Carson-Fitz – sorry, Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative."

Taylor raised an eyebrow at him.

"We're going to build windmills," Julie clarified. "And other things, solar panels, geothermal, whatever. Sustainable energy."

"Here in New York?"

"Anywhere it's needed."

"We're thinking mostly Africa," Will said, "but we're open to suggestions."

"A couple years ago," Taylor said slowly, "we had a big black-out here. People died because they got too hot in their apartments and there weren't enough cooling stations, especially in poor neighborhoods. New York could use some windmills, too." Then he stopped, clearly thinking he'd said too much. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Will told him. "Keep talking, please. Keep right on talking."

So Taylor Carter stayed and talked.


	9. Chapter 9

"I'm bored," Holly Goode Bellatore said.

Her husband did not look up from his book. "What, love?"

"Bored," she said again. "I'm _bored_!"

Teeny Bellatore put his book down and looked at her. "Go shopping, then."

"Where?" she demanded. "I've been to every damn shop in this damn hick town. I own everything worth owning."

"Well … go for a walk, then."

"In the rain? And to where? To the damn dull shops in this damn dull hick town?"

Teeny peered at her. "What do you want to do, then, Holly?"

"I want to go out to dinner."

The former mob boss patted his vast stomach. "I'll take you to dinner."

"Not _here_. God almighty, the only thing worse than the shops in this pigshit town are the restaurants. I want to go to the city."

"To New York?"

"What other city is there, you moron?"

"Now, Holly. You shouldn't talk to me that way." He returned to studying his book.

The tiny woman stomped over to the table and slapped his book away. "Damn it, Teeny, don't ignore me."

"The counselor says I should ignore you when you're abusive," he answered calmly.

"Fucking morons, both of you. Counselor. We don't need a counselor, Teeny. We need to get out of this burb and down to the real city, where we can really live."

He sighed. "We've been through this, Holly. I can't live in the city. It's not home anymore."

"It's _my_ home. If you don't want to live there, I'll go by myself. But I am not staying in this shithole one more day."

Bellatore looked around the spacious home. Beyond the bay window, the neat, wide lawn sloped down to the shores of the river. The oak tree was just starting to buds. Beyond the river, out of sight over a little hill, was the women's penitentiary. He had looked out this window every day for the nearly twenty years Holly had been incarcerated there. He loved this view. But he could see why she didn't.

"We'll go down to the city," he said. "We'll go for the weekend."

"Two weeks," she insisted. "At least."

"We'll see, love."

"I'll go pack."

He retrieved his book and opened it. "We'll go in the morning."

Holly slapped the book away, this time all the way to the floor. "We'll go tonight, you asshole."

Teeny Bellatore stood up. He towered above his wife, and outweighed her by nearly five to one, but he bent his head to look her in the eye. "Don't call me names, Holly," he said gently.

"Go pack your bag, moron. We're going."

She stomped down the hall and slammed the bedroom door.

Teeny picked up his book sadly. He'd been reading about vineyard management. He had an idea in his head, really nothing more than a wish, about buying a little vineyard, growing grapes and making his own wine. Nothing big or fancy, of course, but he loved the pictures of the sunny hillsides with the long neat rows of grapevines. He loved the colors and the space. He'd like walking down those rows and not feeling like he was too big, not worrying whether he'd knock something down. He'd get a big dog, too, one that liked to saunter with him. He liked imagining that.

He hadn't mentioned the idea to Holly. He was still studying up on it. It would have to be further upstate, further from the city. She wouldn't be happy about that. But at least they'd be away from the prison where she'd spent so much time.

"Get your fat ass in gear!" Holly shouted.

Regretfully, Bellatore put his book down and went to pack his bag.

* * *

The recycling manager had never met the man with the accent in person. She imagined he was rich and handsome, but she wasn't sure. And she really didn't care, as long as his money showed up in her checking account.

She called the phone number he'd given her from the landline phone on her desk. She let ring three times, then hung up. Two minutes later her phone rang. "Smith."

"What's the problem?" Mr. Lovely British Accent asked.

"The cops were here. They searched the bins."

"Did they find my items?"

"Nope."

"You're sure?"

"I watched them. I'm sure."

"Good. Very good."

"You want to move the pick-up up?" Smith asked. "We're closed the rest of the weekend, but I could meet you here."

The man with voice didn't pause. "No, that won't be necessary. We'll stick to the original plan. Less chance of attracting additional attention that way."

"Whatever you want. But I want an extra ten grade for my trouble."

That did give him pause. "I'll pay you five."

"Seven-five."

"Fine. Keep me posted. If the police return, I need to know about it right away."

"Yeah. I got your number, Handsome."

The phone went dead.

* * *

"What'd she say?" Fusco asked. He got back into the car and handed Carter the biggest carry-out cup of coffee he could buy.

"She says the boys are fine," Carter reported, "and they're welcome to stay." She sipped the coffee. It wasn't great, but she'd had much worse. "They want to stay all night."

"Lee and Taylor both?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head. "Her first night in her new place, I can't see Chrissy wanting company."

"Scotty," Joss corrected automatically. "Actually, I think that may be exactly what she wants. She wouldn't ask, but … if we're going to be here until midnight anyhow, she'd be glad to have them."

Fusco shrugged. "I guess. What'd you tell her?"

"That we'd call her back."

"Okay."

"You saw that newspaper article, right?" Carter asked.

"The ambulance one? Yeah. I bet Reese is pissed. After he saved Angelis' life and all."

"Just goes to show you, no good deed goes unpunished."

"I guess so." Lionel nodded toward the back gate. "Looks like Smith is leaving."

They both watched in silence as the plant manager drove out. She parked in the driveway and walked back to lock the gate. Then she got in back in her car and drove off.

Beyond the fence, the plant was dark and quiet.

"Well. Okay." Carter slouched a little and drank more coffee.

"So what do you figure?" Fusco asked. "Mysterious burglary later tonight?"

"Maybe. Or maybe the pick-up on Monday as scheduled."

"I'd rather we got the original computers out of there," Fusco said. "Whatever the Professor says, I don't like the idea of them being out of our sight."

"I'm with you."

They settled into comfortable silence and watched the empty plant.

"So how's things with Rhonda?" Carter finally asked.

Fusco chuckled. "You sure you wanna open that can of worms, Carter? 'Cause after we talk about Rhonda, we're gonna talk about Cal Beecher."

"Nothin' to talk about," she told him. "We're done."

"'Cause of the FBI thing?"

"And other things."

Fusco shifted around and sipped his own coffee. "Dr. Love is in the house, Joss. Tell me all your problems."

She laughed out loud. "Well, my first problem is I got this crazy partner and every time the sun goes down he thinks he's Dr. Love."

"That's a problem," Fusco conceded. "Do go on."

* * *

Taylor slept through the final credits on _The Avengers_ DVD. The silence woke him up; he watched the famous shawarma scene with amusement, then got to his feet and stretched. At the other end of the couch, Lee Fusco was stretched out and snoring softly.

They were both wearing brand-new t-shirts and sweat pants. Taylor had been a little surprised that Scotty had spare clothes stashed away, and even more surprised that she had some that actually fit him. He was way taller than she was, but the clothes were in his size. The ones she'd given Lee were only a little too big for him. She had new toothbrushes and combs for both of them, too.

They'd gotten through about half of the movie before he figured out that she probably kept a stash in case she ran into someone who was homeless and needed them. The Elves had told them she took special care of any veterans who wandered into the café, and as crazy organized as she was, it made sense that she had supplies here, too.

He felt a little bad about that, taking clothes that were meant for a homeless guy when he had plenty at home. He could sleep in his clothes for one night; he'd done it before. Finally he decided he'd ask him mom to replace them, out of his allowance if necessary. That felt better.

He felt a little bit weird about crashing in Scotty's new house the first night she lived there, but his mom had said, not in so many words, that Scotty was probably a little bit anxious and wanted the company. Having Lee there kept it from being _too_ weird.

His mom's partner's kid was pretty cool.

This apartment was pretty cool. And the thing they were planning to do downstairs …

He heard clicking through the doorway to Scotty's office. She'd shut the voice of her computer down while they were watching movies, but she was still working. He went to the doorway and knocked softly.

"Hey," Christine answered, "come on in. Movie over?"

"Yeah."

"See the shawarma scene?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "It was … not what I expected. But it was cool." He gestured behind him. "Lee's asleep."

"Then he gets the couch and you can have the guest room."

"Coo – I mean, thanks." He looked at the huge clear smartboard she was working on. "What is this? Can I ask?"

"You can ask. I'm not sure I can answer. I'm trying to figure out how to keep track of things."

"For CI-REI?"

"See-Ree?" she repeated curiously.

"The Carson-Ingram …"

Christine laughed. "Ah, see, now it's official. Now it has a nickname." She stood back from the board and looked at it. "Some of it's just common sense. Organizational documents. Hardware. Floor space. Letterhead. Details. But how to collect all this data, and prioritize it, when it's all changing all the time … and then Will and Julie want to be traveling all the time, hands-on with installations … and there's travel planning and security, clearances, international shipments, permits …"

Her fingers flexed and a red keyboard made just of light appeared under her fingertips. Taylor moved closer and looked up as she typed in more things on the board. There was a tiny projector on the ceiling that followed her hands wherever she moved. "Oh, that's just cool!"

She nodded and pointed. He opened the drawer she'd pointed to and found a stack of what looked like copper bracelets. He slipped one on each wrist and flexed his wrists the way she'd done. His own keyboard appeared. "Are you going to have these in the office?"

"These or something better."

He moved back to the doorway and looked into the living room. There were projectors there, too. They were probably all over the apartment.

"My school just built this addition," Taylor said, "and the architect put all the plans on a cloud. That way when there were updates he could send them right to the workers without having to copy blueprints and hand-carry them out there. Could you use something like that?"

It sounded dumb the minute he said it. Everybody said Scotty was the best hacker in the city; she didn't need some kid telling her about cloud storage. But she didn't blow him off. She considered, then nodded. "I hate clouds. They're a bitch to secure. But you're probably right. For the moment, it's the only thing does what we need." She nodded again. "We need an architect. My same one, I think. And an accountant. And an office manager, probably." She gestured. "Write that down."

Taylor quickly figured out how to post things on the board and added those things.

"IRS registration, I'm sure. And a website. Domain registration. Put a star by that. We'll keep Zoe Morgan on speed dial to handle PR. Probably a corporate phone plan. Health insurance. Way more property insurance."

"Um … shouldn't Will and Julie be deciding some of this?"

"Yes. I'm just trying to get a framework in place. I know they have some ideas. It's just …" She shook her head. "And all this is before we get to the actual technology. And once they announce this thing, we're going to get buried by people trying to sell us stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love emerging technologies, but Holy Mother this is a lot."

"Can I help?" Taylor asked. "Or should I go to bed?"

"Are you tired?"

"Not really."

"Then stay and help. Please. At least stay. Otherwise I feel like I'm talking to myself."

"You kinda are."

"Yeah, yeah." She grinned, then turned back to the board. "Not a grid. We need a windmill for organization. Bike spokes."

"Bike … okay." He watched while she set up each item on her list in a text box, and then spread them across the screen with her fingertips. "Two wheels," he said. "One for the office set-up and one for the windmills."

"Right." She drew a line down the center of the board and split them up. She connected some of the boxes with lines, then stepped back. "This is a good start."

She stepped back in and continued the connections. The boxes floated across the screen as she worked, rearranging the lay-out to keep it as well-ordered as possible. Taylor watched her, fascinated. It was like watching someone slow-dance with her computer. Only not creepy.

"Did you always know you wanted to work with computers?" he asked quietly.

"Hmmm? No, not really. I needed a new identity, and computers were what I learned to try to create it."

"Did you do something illegal?"

Christine paused and looked at him. "No. Not then, anyhow. Later … that's another story. I was trying to help … someone."

He recognized the pain in her voice. It was the same pain he heard in his mother's voice when she was trying to talk about his father without bad-mouthing him. "Sorry," he said instinctively.

"It's okay. Anyhow, that's how I got into computers. But once I learned my way around, they were a good fit for me. A computer does exactly what you tell it to do. Not always what you _want_ it to do, but what you tell it to do. So if you don't get the result you want, you can look through your code and find where you made a bad request. And re-write it."

"And you like that?"

"I like order and consistency, yeah. I'm a little compulsive about that. In case you haven't noticed."

"So computers let you stay be in control."

"Yep."

"Then … why do you have Chaos?"

"That's … more complicated. Chaos is my attempt to maintain balance. Between my completely predictable computers and the real world."

"Oh."

She worked for a few minutes in silence. "Why did you ask? About computers? That something you're considering, career-wise?"

The woman kept on working, but Taylor could tell she was listening to him. "Maybe. I don't know. I like computers. But I like a lot of things. I just … I don't know." He thought about it. "Do you think everybody needs to go to college?"

"I think everybody who possibly can needs to go to college, yeah."

"Oh."

"Are you looking for other options?"

He sighed. "My mom really wants me to go to college. And I kinda do, too. I mean, all the Elves, the stuff they're doing, it's cool, you know? But … I don't know what I want to do. I mean, I like computers, and I like microbiology, and I like robotics, and I like history, and I like statistics, and physical therapy, and music management … I just don't know."

"You don't have to decide on a major right away, you know."

"I know. I could take core credits for the first couple semesters. It just feels like I'd be wasting my time." He wiggled his fingers, and the letters and numbers danced around in front of him. "The thing is, my mom's always told me I could be anything I want to be. And I believed her. So now I want to be _everything_. I don't want to pick one thing because it means I have to give up all the other ones."

Christine whistled.

"That sounded really stupid, didn't it?" Taylor said.

"That sounded like the wisest thing I've heard in a very long time." Her hands stopped for a moment. "Do you think your mom might let you take a gap year?"

"A year off before I start college? She actually suggested that. But she said I had to get some kind of job. I think she thinks if I spend a year flipping burgers, I'll be a lot more motivated to get a degree."

"She's probably not wrong."

"Do you think … could I do this?"

"This what?"

"Work here. At CI-REI?" It was a really bold question, and he started filling in as fast as he could. "I could do anything. Put furniture together or mow the grass or answer phones or file or … get coffee or … anything. Everything."

She seemed amused, not mad. "You want to be an intern for a company that's nothing but a bunch of words on a smartboard."

"Well … not right now, of course. I have to finish the school year. But … you're gonna need somebody to do all the junk work, I figured I'd get resume in first."

She nodded, clearly thinking about it. "Well you definitely have the inside track. I'll need to talk to my … partners … about it. Holy shit, I have partners."

"And a new apartment," Taylor said. "And an intern, maybe,"

"I feel like I should go out and buy a car or something, just to top off the day."

"It's almost midnight. I think they're all closed."

"Yeah, here's a secret. If you're paying cash, they'll sell you a car any time you want to buy one."

"I'll remember that."

She shook her head. "I'll talk to Will and Julie. You talk to your mother. We'll see what we can work out."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Just like that."

"It's a good idea, Taylor. We'll see where we can go with it."

"Oh."

"Or not, if you want to reconsider."

"No, it's not that. It's just … kinda unexpected."

Christine grinned. "As much as I like order and predictability, I'm starting to learn that the best things in life are unexpected."

* * *

Just after midnight, Moss drove up and parked behind the detectives' car. "Aviles is on his way with the replacement computers," he said. "And I got a judge to sign off on the B & E."

"It's not breaking and entering when _we_ do it," Fusco pointed out.

"I like to keep things nice and tidy."

"I'd like to keep them nice and _quiet_," Carter countered.

"That, too."

There was no one inside the plant. They swapped the decoy equipment for the stolen items, replaced the locks and the tarp, and were back outside the gate within fifteen minutes. Aviles gave Fusco his phone back and locked up the bank's computers in the back of a black FBI van. "I'm gonna sleep a lot better tonight," he said.

"I think we all will," Carter answered.

They left fresh agents to watch the gates. Then, weary but satisfied, they went home.

* * *

"I don't like this hotel," Holly said. 'Why couldn't we stay at the Coronet like we always do?"

"Because it's booked up," Bellatore answered. He sat down on the edge of the California king bed and bounced experimentally. "It's fine."

"The mini bar isn't as nice."

"Mini bar. What the hell you want with the mini bar? You want a drink, we'll go out and get a real drink. "

"But I want one _now_ and I've already got my shoes off."

Teeny stood up. "I'll go get you something, then. What do you want?"

"I don't know. I want a better mini bar. And a nicer suite. I want to be at the Coronet."

"I told you," he said, "it's all booked up. Some big party next weekend. That Carson guy."

"We could have stayed there tonight, though."

"You said you wanted to stay for a whole week. I figured you wouldn't want to move in a couple days."

"What's so special about this Carson guy, he can buy out a whole hotel?"

"Robert Carson Junior? He can buy out the whole damn city."

Holly opened two tiny bottles of vodka, poured them into a glass, and sipped. "This is shit," she pronounced.

"It's Grey Goose."

"It's shit." She poured it down the drain, then threw the glass into the sink hard enough to crack it. "You could have had that much money, if you had any ambition. But no, you just want to sit around on your ass and read about grapes. _Grapes_. Look at you. You never ate a grape in your life, or a vegetable, either, unless it was smothered in butter."

"Hey. I got big bones."

"You got big bones covered by a ton of fat. Jesus, try a salad once in a while."

Teeny moved closer to her. "Holly. You got no call to talk to me like that. I'm the same size now as when you went away."

"God, I wish I'd killed you that night."

"You don't mean that."

She stared at him, hard. Then she gestured sharply. "Put my shoes on. We're going out for drinks."

"That's more like it."

"Yeah, yeah. Get my shoes."

* * *

Christine checked on her guests one last time before she went to bed. Lee was crashed on the couch; she left a little light on for him. Taylor was in the guest room, and from the door she could hear his soft breathing. She hadn't planned on having them both all night, but she didn't mind.

She wondered if Harold had planned it, but it was unlikely. There were too many moving pieces in this particular arrangement.

It wasn't as if she'd never spent a night away from Chaos. She'd traveled, and she'd dated. But this was different. This was officially moving away. If she let herself think about it too long, this felt like betraying her father. Turning her back in him.

He was long dead. He wouldn't care.

Even sleeping, the presence of the boys in the apartment anchored her in reality and kept her from dwelling too much. They calmed and comforted her.

Sometimes the best things in life were unexpected.

She climbed into bed and checked her phone one last time. She wasn't surprised to find a text from John. CALL ME, it said simply.

It was three in the morning. She called him. "What up?"

"You okay?" he asked sleepily.

"Fine."

"I was going to offer to come sleep in your guest room, but I hear the beds were all full."

Christine smiled to herself. "Stalker much?"

"I keep up with family," he said. "Sleep well."

"You, too."

She clicked off the phone, but she kept it close through the night.


	10. Chapter 10

Maxine Angelis woke before the sun came up.

She sat up in bed and stared across her dim bedroom. It wasn't quiet outside; the city was never quiet, even before dawn on a Sunday morning. But it was a little quieter than usual.

She hadn't slept well. She'd had odd dreams, and she'd woken up and been tangled in imaginary conversations in her head. This mystery woman, this hacker, Fitzgerald. Will Ingram, who seemed to open and innocent and genuinely nice. And his girlfriend, who was so suspicious of people.

And Jorgansen, the child molester, leering at her across the table at Rikers.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?

She was still mad at her editor for trying to pull her off the story. But really, once the owner came down on it, Glen hadn't had much choice. In a way, it gave her an out. She could walk away from this and tell herself it was just to save her job. Glen had no choice and neither did she. Move on to other things. Let it go.

But then she'd have to admit that she was afraid of this woman.

She hadn't backed down from HR, or from the mob. She wasn't going to back down from some hacker.

Maxine pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest. If she wasn't going to give up, what the hell _was_ she going to do?

Trying to follow Will Ingram was pointless. His security people were too damn good. Plus he, or his girlfriend, were way too smart to lead her to anything juicy.

Fitzgerald. She was scary good with computers, sure. But maybe she wasn't quite that good in real life. Her people were ridiculously loyal; even the cops went out of their way to protect her. But Maxine knew where she worked. Sooner or later, the woman had to come back to Chaos, didn't she?

It might take a while. And Maxine wasn't going to get any help from Glen or the other reporters at the _Journal_. She was on her own. If she was going to stake out the coffee shop, she needed to be prepared. But she could do it. She'd done much harder assignments.

Her mind started spinning through the details. What she'd need, where she could park, whether she could borrow or rent cars, in case it took several days. Yes, she could do it. She could do it.

She could. And so, she realized, she was going to – whether she _should_ or not.

* * *

Nicholas Ellis Donnelly – now Nick Malone – spent the night in the Den. He'd watched Moss and his team swap out the stolen bank computers for decoys, and then, as he was about to head up to bed, one of the other burglaries cracked for Irini. He and Northrup waded in, shooting scrambled messages to the local police while they caught the men. At first glance the burglars were simply low-level criminals, hired to steal the computers from the Best Buy in Omaha where Bad Wolf One had taken the call.

They'd dug all night, but they didn't find anything more about the men. They were just contractors, as expected. The apparent leader of the group, a man named Seville, had made a career out of mid-value B&Es. Someone had wired ten thousand dollars into his personal checking account. He'd tried to draw it out in cash, presumably to pay off his crew, and of course that had attracted the attention of the local authorities.

The origin of the wired cash was deeply and cleverly hidden.

The police had recovered the computers from Seville's garage. They'd also found an e-mail he'd sent to his employer, demanding another ten grand for 'storage fees'.

"It's a wonder the boss didn't kill them all," Irini said.

"He might have been working on it," Donnelly answered.

The e-mail trail, of course, led nowhere.

"This one," Northrup said, shaking his head, "is clever as hell."

"Then he's the one we want," Donnelly said.

Omaha had probably chased the big guy away. But New York was still in play.

Donnelly took a certain grim satisfaction in knowing that the investigation rested in part of capable shoulders of Detective Jocelyn Carter.

* * *

Reese called in the morning, but there was no Number. Finch sounded distracted and annoyed. John could sympathize; the Machine's increasingly sporadic contacts bothered him, too. But Finch was doing his best to deal with the virus Stanton had uploaded, and he'd made it abundantly clear that there was nothing Reese could do to help.

John got bear claws and took them to Christine's new place. She was up; he got the distinct impression she hadn't slept at all. The boys were still asleep. She made him coffee and they shared pastry and quiet conversation.

The books weren't unpacked, he noted, but the new apartment had a distinctly lived-in feel already. The gentle but undeniable scent of boy in the air probably had a lot to do with that.

Christine knew he was checking up on her, and she didn't object. She took the chance to check on his wound as well.

Satisfied, John took two bear claws for Finch – he'd drop them off after his yoga class – left the rest for the boys, and headed out.

* * *

Fusco stopped by the precinct before he went to pick up his son. He had some paperwork he wanted to grab, so he could pretend he was going to work on it at home. He'd already put in one day of overtime, and Moss had promised to call them back in if anyone showed up to claim the decoy computers. But until that happened, he wanted to salvage as much of the weekend as he could with Lee. As long as he had paperwork with him, the captain couldn't bust his chops about it. Much.

And while Fusco usually went out of his way to avoid Simmons, today he was looking for him. He didn't have long to wait; while he was still gathering up his papers, the big man sauntered over to his desk. "Where you been?" he demanded, very low.

"Task force with Moss. Carter's on it, too."

"What about?"

"That bank in the Pulaski Building that got robbed. Feds wanted the computers back."

"How come?"

Fusco shook his head. "Moss doesn't confide in me."

"You find 'em?"

"Yeah. But we're still working the case."

"You let me know if there's anything I should be concerned about, right?"

"Sure. Hey," Lionel said before he could leave, "I got a question for you."

"I look like an encyclopedia?" Simmons snarked.

"This picture in the _Journal_ the other day. The Ingram thing."

"What about it?"

"Picture came from a traffic cam," Fusco explained, ignoring the attitude. "Sounds like this Angelis woman has a source inside the department. So I'm wondering if HR had a hand in that."

Simmons stared at him. "Like HR gives a rat's ass about celebrities."

Fusco shrugged. "Reason I'm asking is, that fixer, Zoe Morgan? She's offering a big reward for the name of the leak."

That got the big man's attention. "How big a reward?"

"Five grand."

"To find out who leaked a picture?"

"To find out who leaked _Will Ingram's_ picture. Or anything else to do with him. That's just lunch money for guys like that."

"Huh." Simmons worked his jaw a minute, considering.

"It ain't worth my getting jammed up with HR for five grand," Fusco continued. "But if you're not a part of it, I figured I might as well poke around."

Simmons sipped his coffee. "Knock yourself out. We got no piece of that pie."

"Good."

"But if you find a name, you run it by me first. Just to make sure it's not one of ours."

"Sure." Which meant, Fusco knew, he'd want a cut of the reward, too.

"If it is one of ours," Simmons continued, probably to himself, "I'm gonna be pissed."

"I'll let you know." Fusco smiled to himself and went back to his papers.

* * *

"I don't trust him," Peterson said.

"What's the problem?" Andreani asked wearily.

"Cash. He's gone again."

"He probably went to the soup kitchen."

"Yeah. He too good to eat with us here?"

The crew chief shrugged. "He's just a kid. Don't worry about it."

"I think he's a snitch. I think he's meeting with that Robinson guy, and Robinson's telling the cops everything he tells them."

"Why would he do that? He needs the money from this job more than any of us."

"Maybe the cops are giving him a reward."

"You're imagining things. Just calm down."

"We don't know this kid. Just some kid we picked up on the street. How come you trust him so much? Or are you in on it, too?"

Andreani glared at him. "Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I rob a bank and then turn myself in?

"When do we get paid? How come we have to wait?"

"Because that's the way the guy with the money wants it. He'll pick up the merch tomorrow, and then we get paid."

"And what if he doesn't pay us? What if he just takes off?"

"He won't."

Peterson growled. "How do you know that? You don't even know what he looks like."

"He wants us for other jobs," Andreani explained. "This is like a test run. We get paid, we're all partners, we're in business. And we don't have to deal with the Five Families or that asshole Elias. Got it? Just us and the big guy. Trust me. This is going to be good for all of us."

"Yeah. Unless that stupid kid turns us all in."

"He's not going to turn us in."

Peterson shook his head again. "I don't trust him."

* * *

In the middle of the afternoon, Finch finished the last step of his set-up and leaned back in his chair. He looked around the hidden room. It was tiny, but very well planned and well organized. He had everything he might need at his fingertips. As a back-up to the library, it was perfect.

He tweaked the angle of the right monitor, then the left one. He was wasting time now and he knew it. He half-wished they had a Number. That was wrong, of course. He would not wish a threat on an innocent person just to ease his…

… he didn't even know what to call what he was feeling.

Ennui, he supposed, for lack of a better work.

Gregg Everett had spent the weekend with Grace Hendricks. He'd known about that. Expected it. Been encouraged by it.

Just before noon, one of his trackers had chirped, and Finch had learned that Grace had used her credit card to buy a ticket to go back to Cape Cod with Everett on Monday.

It was a logical progression, of course. They were compatible as a couple. The most sensible thing, before the relationship went any further, was to see how Grace got along with Everett's young daughter. Harold didn't have any concerns on that front: Grace and Elizabeth would be fine together. But it was the most reasonable thing in the world to introduce them now.

It was a good thing, Finch told himself. It was progress toward a fixed and permanent relationship for Grace. A family. She deserved that.

It hurt.

He wanted to tell himself that he wasn't jealous, but that wasn't true. He was mildly jealous all the time, of the life Everett would get to have with her, the one that Finch himself was denied. In unguarded moments he was fiercely jealous. The photographer got to touch her hair, listen to her laugh, breathe in her sweet scent. All the things that Harold had foresworn in the name of Grace's safety were now granted to this man who had given up _nothing_ for her …

He was jealous. He was regretful. He was full of sorrow.

And he was full of joy, too, that Grace would not be alone.

Ennui wasn't the right word for it. Perhaps there was no right word for it.

The one thing that he knew with perfect clarity was that for one of the very few times in his life, he didn't want to be alone.

So he'd checked that the boys were safely gone, and he'd gone to Christine's new apartment to tweak his back-up computer system there. Except it really hadn't needed much tweaking, and she probably knew that.

He could have called John. They could have gone to a movie or something. Reese would not have asked for an explanation, beyond _I have nothing better to occupy my time_. He would have understood. But here, at least he could pretend he was doing something useful with his afternoon.

He'd left the door open, and he could hear Christine talking to herself in the living room. Not talking to herself, he amended, but to her computer. She had a computer monitor in every room of the apartment, most disguised as art when they weren't in use, and a projector in every ceiling that would put a virtual keyboard of light at her fingertips everywhere she went. The system was voice-activated and capable of speech generation. At Chaos, she'd called it Zelda and the voice had been a British female. Here she called it Alan, and the voice, while it retained its British accent, was a rich male baritone.

Her computer was, in many ways, her roommate. Her constant companion.

Most of the time, Finch reflected glumly, a computer would have been enough companionship for him, as well.

Not today. Not while Grace was moving on with her life. Predictable and expected as it was, and though he himself had orchestrated much of his former fiancée's momentum, it still hurt.

And of course, it was his own damn fault. Christine had called him on making plans for everyone around him, trying to fix everyone's life, and she wasn't wrong. The pain he felt now was purely a self-inflicted wound.

Which didn't make it any less painful.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen. There was a kettle on the stove, warm to the touch. He checked that it had water in it, then turned on the burner. While he waited, he went to the living room.

Christine was standing in front of the fireplace, looking at the computer monitor over the hearth. Pictures appeared on the screen, in a slide show. Handsome men and women of all ages, most with brown eyes and light brown hair.

"Peter," she called, and the picture changed. "Charles." And then, "Jordan."

"You aren't seriously trying to learn all of the Carson family, are you?" he asked.

"Pause, Alan." She turned to him. "I am. Per Will's request."

"There are hundreds of them."

"I know." She gestured to the side table. "Lapel camera, earpiece, two-way feed. And my tablet is loaded in case I get stuck."

"And you're planning to spend the weekend talking Will through the Carson gathering."

"That's the plan."

"Impressive. And ambitious." Finch nodded. "So you're going to the birthday party."

"Apparently."

"What are you going to wear?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm just going to hide out in some back office."

"No. Not with the news stories out there. You can't be skulking in the shadows."

"I'll find something."

Finch cleared his throat delicately. "There is nothing in your closet that's suitable for this event."

"Stalker."

He did not deny the charge. "Would you be willing to let me take you shopping?"

Christine's eyes narrowed as she concentrated on him with a little frown. "That bad?"

He scanned her appearance very deliberately. She wore a white button-down shirt, a man's shirt but in her size, and dark blue jeans. She was also, at the moment, barefoot. It was the standard casual uniform for Chaos employees, and she tended to wear it by default, just as Mr. Reese routinely wore his dark suit with a white shirt and no tie. "It was perfectly acceptable for your role at the café," he said carefully. "But as you move onto the world stage, a bit of an upgrade is perhaps in order."

"Will said I could wear jeans."

Harold thought for a long moment. Then he simply nodded. "As you wish."

"Good." She turned back to the screen. "Alan, continue, please."

A new picture flashed up. "Peter Moynihan," she said.

The computer voice sighed heavily. "Paul Moynihan," it corrected.

"That's not fair. They're twins."

A new picture came up. "Amanda Carson."

_Click._

"Adam Carson."

_Click_. Christine frowned at the picture of the little girl. "Emily Carson," she said uncertainly.

_Click._

"Paul Moynihan."

_Click._

"Alan, pause please." She looked at Harold. "One dress."

"Of course," he agreed. And under his breath, "And accessories, of course."

"I heard that. I'm not wearing heels."

"Of course not."

"_One _dress."

"Of course."

Christine growled, but she went to get her shoes. Finch called for a car.

* * *

"Anything?" Poole asked from the doorway.

Donnelly startled; he'd been half-asleep. "No. The agent in charge expects a pick-up tomorrow. It's unlikely that anything will happen until then."

"They're still looking for the burglars?"

"They are."

"You should get some sleep."

Donnelly started to argue. Then he didn't. "Yeah." He stood up stiffly.

"And maybe a shower," the director suggested delicately.

Donnelly sniffed. "Ehhh, I can wait another day or two."

"No," Poole said firmly. "You really can't."

Donnelly smiled in exhaustion and headed for the door.

* * *

The boutique was painfully exclusive. There was a manager in a good suit who greeted them at the door. Finch watched as the man's eyes raked over Christine and dismissed her, but when he got a good look at Finch's suit his appraisal rose again and in the space of three seconds he was very, very interested in pleasing her.

"How can I help you today?" he asked, very pleasantly, with his eyes still on Harold's hand-stitched buttonholes.

"She needs a dress," Finch said. "For a dinner party. And it needs to be ready on Saturday."

"Of course. We have an in-house seamstress who can handle the necessary alterations." It went without saying, Finch noted, that alterations would be necessary. "Miss Gray?" he called. "Can you help us here?"

Miss Gray was a woman middle years in a beautiful dove-gray suit. "Of course," she said warmly. She focused almost entirely on Christine. "Is there a particular occasion?"

"Robert Carson Junior's birthday dinner."

"Oooh." She nodded. "We've done a number of dresses for that event. Please, come with me." She led Christine toward the back of the shop. Finch followed without speaking; the manager dropped back, but hovered within easy calling distance. Miss Gray stopped and looked her customer up and down again. "Do you wear heels?" she asked practically.

"Not if I can help it."

"At your height, then, I don't think you can wear tea-length without looking peculiar. And for this occasion a mini is probably inappropriate." She glanced swiftly at Finch, clearly still assessing. "So would you prefer floor-length or knee-length?"

Christine looked to Finch. "I think she'd be more comfortable in knee-length," he answered, "but let's keep an open mind."

"Very good. Do you have a particular color you prefer?"

"Not black," he answered before his companion could speak. "Or white. And not pink or yellow."

"Not a big fan of pastels in general," Christine added.

Miss Gray gestured. "I have some ideas. Why don't you have a look around while I pull them, and see if there's anything else you'd like to try?" She moved off, stopped at a second rack and took strapless white dress. "Something like this, perhaps?"

Finch started to nod, but Christine shook her head. "I can't wear strapless or backless. I'm sorry, I should have said that before."

The woman smiled understandingly. "Tatoos?"

"Scars."

Miss Gray nodded. "I'll be right back."

That was an issue Finch had not anticipated. He moved close to Christine as she browsed the nearest rack. "If the scars bother you," he said very quietly, "I know an excellent plastic surgeon. But I believe you'll need to let them heal a little longer."

She glanced at him, surprised. "Oh, the bullet wound. Yeah, I'll think about it."

He blinked. If she wasn't talking about the scars from her recent shooting … "Oh."

"I have older scars," she confirmed, her eyes focused very deliberately on the dresses in front of her. "They're very faint, but …"

"But you're aware of them." Finch nodded. Scars from her childhood. From her abusive mother. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

Christine shrugged. "Why would you? You've never taken me shopping before."

She did not want to discuss it. Finch couldn't blame her. "I suppose." He reached for a hanger. "How about this?"

"Too much bling."

Miss Gray came back, carrying six dresses of various colors. "Oh, that's a nice choice," she commented.

"She's already rejected it," Finch said sadly.

"Oh. Well." She gestured toward a dressing room. "Let's see how you like these."

Christine followed her in. "He's not really my uncle, you know."

Finch raised an eyebrow. No one had mentioned their relationship at all. But Miss Gray smiled conspiratorially and nodded as if she was genuinely amused. "They never are, dear."

He settled onto one of the lush couches in the waiting area. The manager appeared immediately. "Could I offer you some sparkling water? A glass of champagne, perhaps?"

"No, thank you."

"Coffee?"

"No."

Mildly confused and a bit put out, the man drifted away again.

Miss Gray came out of the dressing room and put two of the dresses on a return rack. One was dark orange, the other a bright blue: Finch had guessed they'd be rejected out of hand, but he'd let Christine decide. She went back inside.

In a remarkably brief time, Christine came out in a darker blue dress, with a big bow at one hip. She stepped onto the dais and announced, "I'm pretty sure I hate this."

"Agreed," Finch said at once. "But the length is good, for reference."

She studied it in the mirrors. "Yes."

The manager returned with a silver tray containing two glasses and an unopened bottle of Perrier. "In case the young lady gets thirsty," he commented in response to Finch's look. He went away again.

Harold sighed. "Are you thirsty?" he offered.

"Not for that." She smiled mischievously. "Stores are never nice to people," she said. "They're nice to credit cards."

Miss Gray snickered. "You're not wrong," she said, very quietly.

Finch looked at the two of them. They were clearly referring to something, but he couldn't begin to guess what.

"You see this young lady over here?" Christine continued. "Do you have anything in this shop as beautiful as she is?"

The saleswoman fought down a genuine laugh. "Oh, yes," she responded. "Oh, no. No, No. No, I'm saying … we have many things as beautiful as she would want them to be. That's the point I was getting at. And I think we can all agree with that. That's why when you came in here."

Finch raised his eyebrows, and the two women laughed out loud. "Have you honestly never seen _Pretty Woman_?" Christine asked.

"I … no."

"Because that's almost what we're doing here. Well, except for the piano sex later."

"The what?"

"How can you not have seen it?"

"Rom-coms are really not my thing," he protested.

"Then I have found my perfect revenge for this," she said. She flounced back into the dressing room.

Miss Gray stayed. "I am sorry, sir." He could see her trying to determine how offended he was.

"If you can make her laugh through this … ordeal," Finch assured her, "I am completely in favor of it."

She nodded. "Most women would be very pleased to have someone take them shopping, especially for a new dress."

"She's not most women."

From behind the closed door, Christine said, "Oh."

"Oh?" Miss Gray inquired.

"Oh," she repeated. "As in, oh, I love this, but it's a bit … um …."

"Let's see it," Finch insisted.

She came out in deep gold dress of heavy satin. It had a straight skirt that hung to just below her knees and a bodice that was unadorned except for a pleated accent on the right side. It was sleeveless, with wide shoulder straps that adequately covered her gunshot scars. The dress was really quite modest; it implied a lot more curves than it revealed. It was elegant, understated. It was beautiful.

There was uncertainty in Christine's eyes and her posture as she stepped onto the dais again. Finch could see why. The dress, in its rich, deceptive simplicity, was stunning, and it made the woman who wore it equally stunning.

"Oh," Miss Gray said warmly, "oh, yes."

Harold watched Christine's eyes in the mirror. He knew what she was seeing. He'd seen it once before, in himself, the first time he'd seen put on a custom-tailored suit. Not bespoke, not then, but the first suit he'd ever worn that actually fit him properly, perfectly. He'd look in the mirror and a stranger had looked back at him. _This is not who I am_, he remembered thinking, _but it is who I am becoming_.

Her eyes dropped slowly, from the reflection of the dress to the reflection of her bare feet. Her toenails were neatly clipped, but not polished. Those lovely comfortable simple bare feet, beneath that impossibly elegant dress. The contrast was so sharp that it hurt.

Her gaze traveled up again. The woman in the gold dress was not Christine, not yet. But he could see her recognizing that she could become that woman, if she wanted to.

He'd told her years before that her intellect could put the world at her feet. He watched her realizing again that that had been the truth. She could see it for herself now. Her potential was suddenly incarnate. She could be a woman who wore dresses like this. Routinely. Confidently. Carelessly.

All she had to do was accept it.

But she wasn't quite ready. Close, achingly close, but not quite.

Miss Gray said, "No one will be able to take their eyes off you."

Christine blinked, turned her head slightly to meet Finch's gaze in the mirror. Her eyes got a little wider. She was on the verge of being overwhelmed by it all.

"That dress is going home with us," he announced firmly. Before she could protest, he calmly added, "But it won't do for the birthday party."

"It … won't?" the saleswoman asked.

"For that event she needs to be more in the background, I'm afraid."

"Ahhhh." The saleswoman was clearly puzzled, but she agreed because that was her job. "That's going to be a bit of a challenge." She considered, then nodded to herself. "I might have just the thing."

As she moved off again, Finch stood up and went to the side of the dais. Christine continued to stare at her reflection. "I don't know where I'd wear it," she said uncertainly.

"We'll find an occasion," he promised her. He tried to resist, but couldn't; he reached over and pinched just a bit of the waistline between his finger and thumb. "It needs to come in just this little bit. I don't think I'd change the length any."

"Random …"

He reached higher, shortened the shoulder strap the same way. "And this, just half an inch. Three-quarters, perhaps. But that can wait until you find an opportunity to wear it. Perhaps when we officially launch the Initiative."

Christine took a deep breath.

"You can get away with kitten heels," he continued. "Perhaps a little flat with a peep toe." She flinched, and he dropped his hands away. "Again, we have time to accessorize."

She met his eyes in the mirror again. "Random."

Miss Gray cleared her throat discretely. She held up the hanger she carried. "This one?"

It was a wine-colored slip dress, covered entirely by fine black lace, with the same broad shoulder straps as the gold dress, a wide asymmetrical ruched waistband and a moderately full skirt.

"Oh," Christine said.

"Yes," Finch agreed. "Go try that."

She brushed her hand over the gold satin, gave herself one last critical look in the mirror, then stepped down and followed Miss Gray.

Finch looked around, gestured for the manager, who was still hovering. "If you could have your seamstress join us, please?"

"Has the young lady selected a dress, then?"

"Two, I think."

The man smiled politely. Finch could see him calculating his cut of the commission. "Right away, sir."

In a moment, Christine came out of the dressing room again. The black and wine dress fit well and looked lovely; it was sufficiently decorous to satisfy the demands of the occasion without attracting undue attention. He could see the young woman relax into it. It was the right choice, for now.

The seamstress was an older woman with a comfortingly heavy middle European accent. "A little shorter, I think," she said, circling the dais.

"Half an inch," Finch agreed, circling opposite her. He wanted, quite badly, to get on his knees and pin it himself, but the wariness in Christine's gaze kept him on his feet. He did allow himself to step up and pinch up the shoulder straps again. "These need to come up," he said. "That will inform the length of the hem."

The seamstress looked at him critically, then nodded her agreement. "And the waist a bit, I think." She pinched there. "Just enough to make the curves, ya?"

"Ya. Yes."

She got her pins and stepped onto the dais. Finch moved to the other end of the couch, where he could properly supervise the proceedings. He gestured and the manager came, opened the Perrier, and poured a glass. He handed it to Finch, and then, fixed with a stare, backed away again.

Christine watched the transaction in the mirror. When he was out of earshot, she began to quote again quietly. "You know what we're gonna need here? We're gonna need a few more people helping us out. I'll tell you why. We're going to be spending an obscene amount of money in here. So we're gonna need a lot more help sucking up to us because that's what we really like, you understand, right?"

The seamstress snorted in pleased recognition.

Miss Gray brightly, but also quietly, said, "Sir, if I may say so, you're in the right store and the right city for that."

Finch crossed his knees and sat back to sip his sparkling water.


	11. Chapter 11

Peterson waited until late in the afternoon, when Andreani and Clay were both asleep in front of some dumb movie with a lot of car chases and explosions. Then he tapped Nekl on the arm and gestured him out into the hallway.

"What?" Nekl asked.

"Not here." He kept walking, out the side door to the little alley. There were piles of cigarette butts there, and he wished he still smoked. "That kid, Clay. You notice he's always running off?"

"Yeah, so? I ain't his boyfriend."

"I think he's a snitch."

"Clay? He's not that smart."

"You don't have to be smart to be a snitch. You just have to remember what you hear."

Nekl sighed. "If he was a snitch they would have picked us up by now."

"Nah, man. They're waiting to get the big guy at the pay-off."

"You're imagining things. We didn't even crack the vault. And the buyer blacked out all the cameras, remember? They won't catch us."

Peterson looked down the alley. In the park across the street there was a surveillance camera. It had a red light on it, flashing; it was active. There were cameras everywhere in this damn city now. He took Nekl's arm and pulled him out of sight of the camera. "I'm not gonna risk doing time for some punk kid we picked up on the corner."

"So talk to Andreani."

"I did. He won't listen."

"So what do you want me to do about it? He won't listen to me, either."

"I think we need to take care of this for ourselves."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning … a kid like that goes walking the streets, he might run into a little trouble, you know?"

Nekl shook his head. "I don't know, man."

"You know robbing a bank is a federal beef, right?"

The other man considered. "Alright. Keep talking."

* * *

"Anything?" Elias asked on the phone.

Marconi shook his head. "Nothing, Boss. These guys are laying low."

"Keep looking."

"I will."

* * *

When she'd been properly measured and the dress was pinned and promised for Friday, Christine put her own clothes back on and Finch walked her out of the store. "Dinner?" he offered.

"Actually I think I've socialized enough for one day. Or whatever that was."

"Of course." He tucked her hand through the bend of his elbow. "We could get take-out, if you like."

She looked at him for a long moment. "Really."

"I'm sorry. If you'd rather I just took you home …"

"What are you seeing?"

"Hmmm?"

Christine stopped and pulled him to the curb, out of the way of other pedestrians. "You and John both, you don't want to leave me alone. So what am I doing that has you both on edge? Because I'm not seeing it."

"I … it's not like that," he stammered.

"Is it the Angelis thing? I'm handling that okay. At least I think I am. But when you two start hovering, I start to doubt my self-monitoring skills. So tell me what's going on."

He turned his head and looked out over the traffic. It was just traffic, ubiquitous and eternal. The bloodstream of the city, in motion day and night. It was easier then looking into her eyes. Christine's eyes saw too much. "It's nothing," he said.

"Random. Please."

When he didn't answer, she started to pull her hand away. He grabbed it, finally looked at her again. "You're not doing anything that alarms us," he said firmly. "John's hovering because … I suppose because he anticipates that all the changes may be upsetting to you. Not because you've actually acted unduly distressed, but because he thinks you may be. And because he's settling into his new … role … in your life. He's hovering mostly because that's what John Reese does."

"And you?"

Harold looked away again, this time toward the building. "I just … perhaps my reasons are the same as his. In the absence of any clients, I'm simply …"

"Random." She squeezed his hand.

"It's nothing," he assured her. "Come on, I'll drop you off at home."

He turned toward the sidewalk again. She tugged his hand to stop him. "It's not me, is it?"

"Pardon?"

"You're not hovering because of me. There's something else going on. _You_ don't want to be alone."

This time Harold looked at her shoes. They were leather loafers, good quality but old, a bit scuffed. Will had a pair very much like them; it was no wonder they got along so well. Christine wore size seven, sometimes seven and a half, depending on the fit. She'd never learned to walk on heels and avoided them at all costs. She liked to be able to run away if she needed to, he supposed.

He could all but feel her eyes on his face. Blue and bright and looking right through him, seeing the outlines of the secrets, the things he tried to keep hidden. "Yes," he admitted softly.

Christine moved closer, crowding against him. "Something different," she said, just as quietly.

He glanced up. "What?"

"I feel like something different tonight. Pho, maybe."

"Vietnamese?" he asked dubiously. She didn't ask his reasons. It was understood that if he could bear to tell her he would. Or if he needed to tell her. She trusted that, at least. She did not ask.

Of course she did not ask. She never asked.

"Or something like that. Something a little lighter."

Finch nodded, grateful. "It will be difficult to find a place like that that also features chocolate desserts."

"Then we'll have to go somewhere else for dessert," she answered logically. "It's early."

"Of course." He gestured for the car. "Thank you."

She bumped against him again. "Thank you for buying me dresses."

"That was actually rather enjoyable. You're a much more amenable shopper than Mr. Reese."

"We'll get dessert to go, and then I'll download 'Pretty Woman' for you."

Finch groaned. "I was hoping you'd forget about that."

"I won't."

"Of course not."

He opened the car door and Christine got in. As was her practical, if unladylike, custom, she scooted across to make room for him. "You can't do that in a dress, you know."

"Yes, dear."

He consulted with the driver, then sat back. "It's a little unnerving, you know."

"The movie? Ehh. It's a cultural referent, you need to see it once. You might even like it."

"The way you read me."

"Oh, yes. It only took me all afternoon to figure out what was going on. I'm a damn psychic, don'tcha know?" She shook her head. "Maybe next time you could just tell me, yeah?"

Harold looked out the window as the car eased into the traffic. They became part of the bloodstream of the city. "I didn't want to seem needy," he admitted.

"Right about now," Christine answered simply, "I could use to feel needed."

He thought about this. Dinner and chocolate and a bad rom-com in Christine's new apartment. Or else he could drop her off and go loiter in the park across from Grace's townhouse, feeling sorry for himself. It was an easy choice. Mostly.

"I could," he suggested carefully, "take you _out _to a movie. Something first-run. If you'd prefer."

Christine just laughed.

* * *

And then, blessedly, after they had ordered but before their food had arrived, his cell phone chirped, just once.

Christine cocked her head. "Is that her?"

_Her_. He had never assigned gender in his thoughts about the Machine, but he supposed it was logical for someone who treated her computers as boon companions to do so. "Yes." He looked around. There was an old pay phone booth at the back of the restaurant, near the restrooms. "Will you excuse me?"

"I'll get our order to go."

"Thank you."

The moment he closed the door of the booth, the phone rang. He picked it up and listened to the electronic voice give him the code words. Then he frowned fiercely. He'd heard those books, in that order, before. Repeat customer. It was not, for a change, Leon Tao. And thankfully, not Detective Carter. He couldn't remember exactly who it was. But it would come.

He paid for their dinner, and in very short order they were on their way with carry-out bags. "I am sorry I'll have to miss the movie," he said insincerely.

"No, you're not. And I won't forget, you know."

"You can come with me, if you like."

Christine considered. "Do you really want the company, or are you just being polite?"

"I'm being polite. But the offer stands."

She shook her head. "I think I'll go home and make more lists of things to do."

"Very well." He waved down a cab for her. "I think this one is yours," he said, holding out on of the bags.

"Take it to John," she answered. "I suspect he'll need it more than I do."

He opened the cab door. "Thank you," he said. "For …" _Distracting me. Keeping me company. Indulging me. Comforting me._ _Not making me explain. _He didn't know which to say.

Christine leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "Call me if you need me."

She got in the cab and closed the door.

Finch watched until the cab rounded the corner. Then he hailed another for himself. He juggled the carry-out bags into one hand, brought his cell phone out with the other. "Mr. Reese? We have a new number. I'll meet you at the library. I'll bring dinner."

* * *

Reese looked at the picture on the board and shook his head. "This kid just can't stay out of trouble, can he?"

It was the same photo of Edward 'Cash' Clay that had hung on the board the last time, the one taken when he was in high school. Finch had been unable to locate a more recent photo. "Apparently not."

They'd sent Clay and his teenage girlfriend home to their small town with her parents. Elisa Hammond was back in school and apparently doing well; she'd send Christine a picture of her and her new boyfriend at the winter formal. But Eddie was a little older and his relationship with his parents had been badly strained. Apparently his homecoming had not gone as well.

"Still no job history," Finch reported from behind his keyboard. "No record of any further schooling. No place of residence."

"He's on the streets again," Reese said. "In the wind."

"So again, we have no way to locate him and no idea where the threat is coming from."

"No, we're in better shape this time. We know his habits. And we know he's not particularly bright. If he's in the city and homeless, he'll go back to the places he knows." Reese took a big bite of Christine's dinner. "You check on Lis?"

"Safely at home still, according to her Facebook postings."

"Good." He grabbed his overcoat, took his carry-out container with him. "I'll be in touch."

* * *

Moss called just as Joss Carter was about to settle down with ice cream and an old movie. "What's up?" she asked.

"Still quiet at the recycling plant," he reported. "We know they planned to pick up the computers tomorrow. I'd like you and Fusco to be on hand."

"No problem."

"The plant opens at eight. I don't imagine they'll be there much before then."

"So fifteen minutes prior to fifteen minutes prior?" Carter asked, falling back on old military jargon.

"Exactly. We're still covering around the clock. If they show earlier I'll give you a call."

"Sounds like a plan. You get anything off the bank computers?"

"Not a damn thing so far," Moss admitted. "Aviles doesn't think we'll ever find anything. He says there's nothing to find."

Which was exactly what Finch had told her, Carter thought. She felt the muscles in her shoulders relax; she hadn't been aware that she'd been tense about that.

And she wondered again how he'd known. How he always knew.

"Your girl LaBlanca isn't convinced yet, so they're still looking. Either way, the equipment's in our custody."

"Right. I'll see you at the plant in the morning. You gonna want more back-up?"

"I'll bring my people," Moss said.

"Suit yourself."

Carter hung up the phone, shook her head. Moss was bringing FBI agents, of course, because there were still HR remnants lurking throughout the NYPD and he knew it. They'd cleaned out a lot of the corruption, but they hadn't gotten the head. Maybe they never would. She didn't blame Moss for not trusting them. She didn't trust them herself.

She wondered if Harold the All-Knowing might know who was really at the head of HR.

If he did, she wondered if he'd tell her.

* * *

Reese had broken into this apartment once; the lock was old and cheap. This time he knocked gently. "Just a minute," the man called. There was movement inside, and then the door opened.

Will Robinson hadn't bothered to check who was outside. John smiled reassuringly. "Hello."

"John! Good to see you again." He took Reese's hand on both of his own and shook it warmly. "Come in, come in. Can I get you something? I could make coffee …"

"No, thank you," Reese said. He stopped just inside the door. "I don't mean to bother you. I just needed to ask a quick question."

"You're looking for Cash Clay, aren't you?"

"You've seen him, then."

Robinson nodded. "He's been at the soup kitchen several times this weekend. I tried to talk to him, but he's not ready."

"How does he seem?" Reese asked. "Is he nervous, like somebody's after him?"

"Not really. He just seems sort of sad. Defeated, you know? He comes in, he works – I told him, he's not required to work for his meals, but he seems to need to feel useful."

"Do you know where he's staying?"

"He wouldn't say. But he seems clean enough and not suffering from the cold, so I'd guess he's got someplace to rest his head, at least." Robinson frowned. "Should I ask? Is he in trouble again?"

"He is," Reese said. "I'm not sure who from or why, but he's in trouble."

"He seems to have a good heart. He just needs a place to start over."

John nodded. "You think he'll be by in the morning?"

"He's been the last two days. Likely he'll come again."

"Good. I'll stop by and see him then."

He started out. Robinson touched his arm. "How you been, John? You seem a little more … peaceful."

Reese smiled again. "I suppose I am."

"Good to hear. Good to hear."

"Talk to you soon."

In the hallway, Reese called Finch. "I've got a line on Clay," he reported.

"That was fast."

"Like I said, he goes where he's comfortable. I should be able to pick him up in the morning. Any luck identifying the threat?"

"No." Finch sounded annoyed. "As before, his lack of an electronic footprint makes it difficult to identify the people in his life, and therefore the danger that they might represent."

"Of course, he may be the perpetrator this time," Reese reminded him. "But that doesn't seem likely."

"I'll keep looking."

"Keep me posted."


	12. Chapter 12

As expected, Clay showed up at the soup kitchen just before seven Monday morning. Reese watched the young man go inside. He was a little better fed than the last time John had seen him. He stayed inside for some time, eating and then helping out. Will Robinson wasn't there, but the other workers seemed to recognize the boy.

So maybe he was a little more responsible than he'd been before, too.

Still, Reese was not pleased that he was back in the city and back on the streets. They'd sent the boy home to his own parents, after Finch had mostly repaired their dire financial situation. John knew Clay had had differences with his father. But he'd genuinely hoped the boy could make a go of it.

Sometimes, he supposed, people needed more than one second chance. At least Clay's girlfriend was at home and doing well.

Reese watched the people in the area. The time of day made his observations easier; nearly everyone was hurrying to work. Anyone who slowed or loitered caught his eye. He scanned the group at the bus stop carefully: It would be a good place to blend in. But the bus stopped and everyone got on. John continued to look.

It was nearly eight before he saw the man with the faded blue scarf. He had dark hair, bushy eyebrows. Mid-thirties. Posture that suggested some time in the military. But he wasn't good at lurking. He came to the end of the cross street and leaned against the corner of the building with his hands in his pockets, staring directly at the front door of the soup kitchen.

His right coat pocket seemed to be a lot fuller than his left one.

Reese tapped his earpiece. "You there, Finch?"

"Of course, Mr. Reese."

"I think I found the guy who's after Clay. I'll get you an ID in a minute."

"Be careful, Mr. Reese."

John smiled grimly and crossed the street.

He timed his approach so that he came to the corner at the same time as a big group of people were surging toward the bus stop. He let himself be pushed against the man in the scarf. "Sorry," he muttered as he moved away.

He didn't have the gun, but he'd verified that there was one. He also had the man's wallet. He ducked into a doorway and opened it. Six dollars. A debit card. And a state ID. "Charles W. Peterson," he said quietly.

The burst of keyboard clatter started before he got the last name out. "Born in 1977?" Finch answered.

"So the ID says."

"Originally from Elkhart, Indiana. High school graduate, no sign of any college …" His voice trailed off, but the keyboard continued. "Most recently employed by the United States Army. He served twelve years, got out last January. No known residence, no known employment."

"And nothing to say why he has it in for Edward Clay."

Finch hesitated. "As we know from previous experience, Mr. Clay has a talent for acquiring enemies."

"That's true."

A squad car rolled up in front of the soup kitchen. The cops weren't running lights and sirens, and they didn't seem in much of a hurry as they got out of the car. It looked like a routine walk-through to Reese.

Clay came out just as the officers were going in. He held the door for them. Except for a word or two, probably _thanks_, they ignored him. The young man pulled the door shut tight behind him and puton his gloves. Then he trotted across the street.

Reese looked toward Peterson. The man had turned his back and cupped his hands over his face as if he were lighting a cigarette in the wind. John wasn't sure if that was for Clay's benefit or the cops', but either way the kid didn't notice him.

He strode back the way he'd come. Peterson grabbed Clay by the arm and pulled him into the alley. The young man didn't resist. Reese turned the corner two steps behind them. By then Peterson had the gun out and pointed at Clay's head, and the boy was cowering against the wall.

"You fucking little snitch," Peterson said. "I knew that's what you were. I told Andreani you were a snitch."

"I'm not, I'm not!" Clay protested.

"Then what are the cops doing there?"

"I don't know. They come by a lot, just to, I don't know, make sure nobody's loitering or whatever. I swear I didn't tell anybody anything."

"And you think I'm just gonna believe you?"

"I'd believe him," Reese said calmly.

Peterson spun, but by then it was much too late. Reese grabbed his right arm by the wrist and smashed it back into the wall. He had to do it twice before the gun dropped. The man swung at him with his left, but John ducked under the fist and planted his own in the man's belly. Peterson doubled over. Then he scrambled for the dropped gun.

Reese kicked the gun away and hit the man on the back of his neck with the flat of his hand. Peterson slumped to the ground for real this time.

He looked at Clay. "Don't run."

The boy stared back at him, wide-eyed and frightened. Then, because he really wasn't very bright, he ran.

John sighed and went after him. The kid was quick, and smart enough to pull a trash can over behind him. Reese simply jumped it and kept going.

The chain link fence at the back of the alley was ten feet high. Clay climbed up three feet before Reese caught him by the back of his jacket and yanked him down.

"I said," Reese repeated, "don't run."

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit," Clay blubbered.

"Uh-huh." John kept his grip on the boy's coat and dragged him back to the street.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" Clay squirmed and twisted some, but he wasn't quite dumb enough to take a swing. At least, not until Reese dragged him across the street, headed for the parked squad car. "No," he said, fighting harder to get loose. "No no no."

"Yes," Reese said firmly. "You aren't going to learn any other way."

"I can't … you can't …" The boy got his balance finally, planted his feet and came around with weak right cross. Reese blocked it easily – forgetting until it was too late that he still had stitches in the arm he blocked with. It hurt. A lot more than he'd expected it to hurt. So he let his own right shoot out and crack Clay in the jaw.

The boy tried to fall down. He wasn't out, but he was pretty well dazed.

"Good enough," Reese said. He opened the door of the squad car and shoved the boy into the back seat. Once he closed the door, it could only be opened from the outside.

Clay stirred and started to complain. Reese ignored him. He went back to the alley and picked up Peterson's gun. Then he grabbed the back of Peterson's coat and half-dragged him back to the street, too. He leaned him against the police car and patted him down for weapons. The man carried an inexpensive but decent six-inch fixed blade in an ankle holster and a genuine Swiss Army knife in his shirt pocket. Reese put all the weapons on top of the squad car. Then he opened the front door – ignoring Clay's more coherent shouts from behind the cage – and threw Peterson into the driver's seat.

He leaned past the unconscious man and flicked on the sirens. Then he slammed the door and retreated quickly.

He was six steps away when the cops burst out of the soup kitchen and ran to their car. He grinned and kept walking until he reached the corner, then turned to watch.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said in his ear, shouting over the sirens, "is there a problem?"

"Not for me there isn't." Reese tapped off his earpiece and kept walking.

* * *

Carter smirked at the caller ID on her phone, then put it on speaker. "Good morning, Finch."

"Good morning, Detectives," he answered cheerfully.

She didn't even want to know how he knew Fusco was in the car with her.

"How goes the stake-out?" he continued.

Carter started to ask, then decided she didn't want to know that, either. "Quiet so far."

"Then I wonder if I might impose on your for a small favor."

Fusco chuckled, and Carter rolled her eyes. "We're kinda stuck here until somebody picks up these bins."

"I am aware. I only need you, one of you, to make a phone call or two. I'm sending you the names of two men who were just arrested attempting steal patrol car Number 1516. Detective Fusco may recognize one of them, a Mr. Edward Clay."

"Doesn't ring any bells," Fusco admitted.

"He's a young pickpocket who ran into some trouble last year."

"Okay, whatever."

"If we can impose, we would like to have both of these men detained at Rikers for the maximum time possible."

"Seventy-two hours," Carter answered. "Why do you want them held?"

"We believe that Mr. Peterson was about to kill Mr. Clay. But we don't know why yet. For the time being, it would be tremendously helpful if they both remained in custody."

"How do you know Peterson was trying to kill him?" Joss asked.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information. And it may not be correct; we may have it backward."

"But if you're right," Fusco said, "you gonna keep a dumb kid in lock-up for three days when you're pretty sure he's innocent?"

Finch hesitated. "Mr. Reese believes, and I concur, that three days in lock-up may be precisely the thing that dumb kid needs to turn his focus on a more productive lifestyle."

"Tough love, huh?" Carter asked. She and Fusco looked at each other, shrugged. "Sure, I'll make the call."

"Thank you, Detective," Finch said. "And if I might be so bold as to ask one further favor – it might be for the best if Mr. Clay were held away from the general population, for his own protection."

"We could say he's our CI if anyone questions it later," Fusco offered.

"I appreciate it, Detectives. Good luck with your computers."

The call ended. "You know," Carter said, "one of these days I'm going to find out how they do that."

"What, finding the people?" Fusco shook his head. "I doubt it. I'm not even sure I'd want to know."

Carter looked out at the recycling plant again. The computers, the things her partner had told her about the missiles. The Bad Wolves. A part of her didn't want to know, either. A big part of her mind said that she was just better off not knowing.

But there was another part of her mind that she knew would never shut up until she knew everything.

She shook her head and placed the call to central dispatch.

* * *

Len Andreani drummed his knuckles against the tabletop. "Where are they?" he muttered.

Markus Nekl glanced at his watch. "It's almost noon. We're gonna have to go without them."

The boss shook head. "We're not going without them."

"It's only two bins and there's a loading dock. We can handle it easy."

Andreani cocked his head. "You know where they are, don't you?"

"No. I just don't think we should be late. She said twelve-twenty, when everybody's at lunch. We gotta leave now if we're gonna get there."

The other man sighed, picked up his phone, and stabbed at it again. Neither of the men answered. "Damn amateurs," he grumbled. "I'd expect something like this from the kid. But Peterson? He damn well knows how to be on time for an operation."

Nekl looked at his watch again. "We gotta go."

"You know where they are."

"If they ain't back by now, they probably ain't comin' back."

Andreani swore again. But he picked up the van keys and stalked out of the tiny apartment.

* * *

"Anthony," Elias said into his phone. "What do you have for me?"

"I think we got names on these mooks who hit the bank. They were squatting in this studio, all four of them."

"As men who haven't been paid yet would," Elias mused, "to make sure their partners don't steal their cut."

"That's how it looks, yeah."

"I trust you'll be paying them a visit."

"We're there now," Scarface reported. "They're gone. Hard to tell if they're coming back, but it doesn't look like they left anything valuable."

"That's unfortunate."

"I got their names on the street. Somebody's turn them up."

"Good work, Anthony."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Please remember that our detective friends would like to speak these men. And would therefore like these men to be able to speak to them."

Marconi hesitated. "I'll do the best I can."

"As you always do, my friend."

* * *

At twenty-three minutes after twelve, Brian Moss' task force members watched as two men in a white service van loaded the two bins of decoy computers into their vehicle and drove away.

"Nice and easy," Moss said over the radio. "Keep them in sight, but give them plenty of room. Carter, take point on the tail for the first leg."

"You got it."

The man behind the wheel drove very carefully, obeying the speed limit exactly, stopping at every light, not even turning right on red. Joss didn't have any trouble keeping up with him; it was all she could do not to rear-end him.

"He's never done this before," Fusco said. "Driving like that in this neighborhood makes him stick out like a sore thumb."

"And us, too," Carter answered. "Moss? We're gonna need to pass him. Get another unit lined up."

"Unit two ready," a second voice responded.

Carter waited for an opening, then gunned her car out around the van. She blew the horn as she passed. Fusco flipped them off for good measure.

"Welcome to New York, boys," he muttered.

Joss grinned and turned the corner two blocks down so she could get behind them again.

"They're on their way," a man said on the restricted radio channel.

"Good." The second man had a well-educated British accent. "Is everything ready?"

"Just like you ordered."

"Very good. Very good."

* * *

Finch and Bear had walked a wide circuitous route that covered sixteen city blocks. It was one of a dozen trails that Finch had laid out for them. Each gave the Malnois the regular exercise he required, while also giving Harold the precise workout he needed to keep his injured hip limber without taxing it overmuch – and at the same time each kept him within seven minutes of the library at all times, in case of emergency.

Each route also had at least two pay phones along the way.

They were nearly back to the library when the center phone in a bank of three began to ring. Harold barely hesitated before he went to answer it. Bear dropped to his feet without command; he was used to this routine now.

Finch listened carefully as the Machine gave him not one but three Numbers.

"It never rains but it pours," he said to the dog as he hung up the phone.

Bear jumped up and looked skyward with what Finch had come to consider his worried face.

"It's a figure of speech, Bear."

The dog looked at him expectantly.

"We need to go home," he said.

The dog moved immediately to his side and they walked quickly back to the library.

* * *

"Hey, Boss," the voice on the phone said.

"More news so quickly, Anthony?" Elias answered. He pushed his plate back just a little; he didn't like to mix dining with business. Marconi knew that. He never would have called at meal time unless it was urgent. "What is it?"

"I got some names of those guys in the apartment. Two of them, anyhow. And get this, now they're staying there at Rikers."

"Really." Elias looked around his cell, but of course he was alone.

"Edward Clay and Chuck Peterson. Word at the mission is that they got into a fight, got popped for trying to steal a patrol car."

"A patrol car."

"I know, that part sounds crazy."

"No. It sounds like our friend John may have had something to do with it." Elias nodded to himself. "Anything on the other two?"

"Still looking."

"Good. Keep me posted."

Elias tucked his phone away, removed the linen napkin from under his chin, and moved to the bars at the front of his cell. "Guard!" he barked. "Guard!"

The man hurried down the corridor. "Something wrong, Mr. Elias?"

"Tell the assistant warden I need to speak to him right away."

"Yes, sir."

"_Right _away."

* * *

Moss' group tag-teamed the white van all the way to Brooklyn. The driver never did a single thing that was even remotely illegal; his careful driving infuriated roughly half the other drivers in city.

Eventually the van turned into the half-empty parking lot of a strip mall. The very last space to the left was held open by an orange traffic cone. If parking had been tighter, of course, someone would have simply run it over, but spaces were plentiful and the spot was inconvenient.

The passenger in the van got out and moved the cone. The driver backed the van into the space. Then he got out, locked the vehicle, and joined his companion.

"Turn the cone over," he said.

"What?"

"The cone. Flip it over."

The passenger did. Then he reached inside and pulled out a key ring with a single key and a remote on it.

The first man took the keys. He clicked the remote, and an older gray sedan six spots down chirped in response. The men walked over and got in.

"New vehicle," Moss said over the radio. "Gray Ford sedan." He read off the license plate. "NYPD and units one and two will stay with the sedan. The rest of you set up a perimeter to keep watch on the van."

All the mobile units checked in. When the gray car pulled out, Moss took the first leg of the new tail.

* * *

The assistant warden and two of his men pulled the cell door open and yanked the Arian Brother back bare seconds before he could stick the shiv between Chuck Peterson's ribs.

Peterson was beaten up pretty badly, though which wounds he'd come in with and which were fresh was difficult to distinguish. The assistant warden had him transferred to the Infirmary, in isolation. He sent his latest attacker to the Hole.

Then he went to tell Elias that his guy was safe.

* * *

The first two Numbers that Finch translated were new to him. But the third one was familiar. He'd just looked at it that morning, courtesy of Mr. Reese.

Sometimes, though not often, their actions in protecting one Number inadvertently put person in jeopardy. Mr. Peterson had been arrested in order to protect Mr. Clay. But perhaps his failure to eliminate the young man had put him in danger from someone else. Since they hadn't yet uncovered his motive …

It took very little time for Finch to see the connection between the three men. They'd all served in the military together, all been discharged at the same time …

His intuition made a massive and, on the surface, largely unwarranted leap. But his intuition had saved lives before. "Oh, no," he said. "Oh, no."

Bear hurried to his side as Finch quickly dialed his phone.

"Kinda busy," Carter barked, more forcefully than before.

"Are you in pursuit of two men in connection with the break-in at the bank?"

"How the hell did you know that, Finch?"

"That doesn't matter, Detective. You were expecting four men, weren't you? But there are only two?"

"Yeah."

He looked at his screen. More information was coming in. "One of them is six-foot-three with sandy brown hair, and the others is dark, of Mediterranean descent?"

"Damn it, Finch …"

_Yes._ The pieces clicked. "Please listen. Someone is trying to kill those men. Possibly right now. You need to take them into custody."

"We want to follow them, see if they'll lead us to their employer," Fusco argued over the speaker phone.

"There's no time," Finch repeated urgently. "You need to stop them now."

"Damn it," Carter said. The call went dead.

* * *

"Moss," Carter said into her radio, "we need to pull these guys over now."

"What?" the FBI agent barked back. "No. We need to see where they're going."

"Now!" Carter insisted. "If we don't pull them in now they'll be dead and no use to any of us."

"How do you know that, Detective? Where are you getting your information?"

Carter looked across the car. Fusco looked back at her, shrugged. "I don't know what we're going to tell them. But Glasses is never wrong."

"I know." Joss clenched her teeth, stomped down on the gas pedal, and hit her flashers.

"Detective, stop …"

Fusco switched the radio off for her.

The gray sedan sped up for an instant, then slowed. The driver turned on his blinker and pulled to the side of the road. He was already rolling his window down as Carter and Fusco got out of their car and drew their weapons.

Moss pulled in front of the sedan and stopped. The second unit parked behind Carter's car.

"Out of the car," Carter shouted to the driver.

"You, too," Fusco added. He reached the car and yanked the passenger door open. "Out of the car, right now."

"What's the problem, Officer?" the driver asked innocently. "I don't think I was speeding, was I?"

"Out of the car!" Carter yelled at him. She pulled his door open. "Right now, out!"

Both the driver and the passenger were men in their mid-thirties. They were neatly groomed, but they both smelled like they'd slept in their clothes. They both got out carefully, hands away from their bodies, as if they'd done this before.

Moss stomped back to the car. "Detectives, what the _hell _do you think you're doing?"

"I'll explain later," Carter said. "Right now we need to get these two out of sight." She gestured with her weapon. "That car," she said. "Move."

Both men moved slowly toward the unmarked police car.

"This had better be damned good, Det–"

Joss would have sworn, if anyone had asked her later, that she actually _heard_ the click of the trigger mechanism. She couldn't have, of course. It was tiny, and both FBI cars were still running, and there was a sea of ambient noise from the city. But she heard something, or felt it, or maybe she just _knew_ it.

She grabbed Brian Moss' jacket and yanked as hard as she could. He stumbled forward, ran into her prisoner or whatever the driver was, and both of them lurched toward the ground. She dove after them just as the gray sedan exploded.

Then she was on the ground, on the shoulder of the road beside her car. Gravel bit into the side of her face. She couldn't hear anything but a roar. But she was facing underneath the car, and when the dust cleared enough she could see Fusco lying on the on the other side of the car, his face on the brown grass, looking back at her.

"You okay?" she called. Her throat felt like she was yelling, but her ears heard her own voice very distantly.

She doubted that Fusco heard her at all, but he saw her mouth move and he nodded. "You?" he mouthed back.

"Think so." Carter lifted her head, got her arms under her and pushed up. Nothing hurt any worse than the gravel on her face. She brushed it away as she sat up. Her fingers came away wet; she was bleeding, a little. Just scrapes.

Her ears started to clear. She knew it would be days before they were completely right.

The car had shielded her some. Brian Moss had not been so lucky. She could see numerous tears in the back of his suit coat where gravel had ripped through it. Some were red at the edges. He had a little blood on the back of his neck, too. But he was moving. Trying to get up. Minor injuries, she hoped.

The driver of the gray sedan, their suspect, was hurt less than either of them.

Carter staggered to her feet and looked back. Beyond the burning sedan, the agent who had been with Moss was also sitting up. He wasn't trying to stand, though. Through the smoke Carter was pretty sure she could see one of his feet pointing the wrong direction.

Fusco got up and looked at her over the top of the car. He grinned. She grinned back.

Somewhere a siren started to wail.


	13. Chapter 13

"How did you know?" Moss asked, some time later. He and Carter sat beside each other on the bumper of the squad. Carter's scrapes had already been cleaned up. They were still picking gravel out of Moss' back. He was stripped down to his pants and undershirt.

Joss raised one hand, about to admit that she had no answer for that.

"It was just like the last time," Fusco said quickly, before she could speak. "That case we worked with Donnelly."

Moss looked at him quizzically.

"The Man in the Suit?"

"I'm familiar with the case, Detective. I just don't see what that has to do with _this_."

"You know how the guy got down into the parking garage and then he slipped out somehow? Carter and I, we followed a car out of there. Not the Man, we didn't see him anywhere, but these other guys that were shooting up the place."

"The cops from HR," Moss said.

"Yeah. Only we didn't know that then. We just saw them hauling ass out of there, so we followed them. We get up on the freeway, about to close in on them, and then boom! Car blows sky high. If we'd been a couple car lengths closer, we'd have been toast, too."

"I read your report. But why do you think the two incidents are connected?"

Carter shook her head. "Not connected. Just similar. When a thing like this starts to go south, low-level operatives for hire, someone always seems to wipe out the patsies. We were following this sedan and thinking, these guys don't have anything that whoever hired them wants any more, they're just a liability. And the way this operation has been run …"

"I see what you mean," Moss agreed. "It's logical, when you look at it that way."

"It wasn't so much logic," Fusco supplied, "as just this weird sense of _déjà vu_."

"Like we both knew at the same time," Carter added.

The FBI agent nodded, then winced as the paramedic dug for a stubborn bit of rock. "Well, we've got them now. Bray's ankle is broken, but other than that I'd say we got off light."

"We need to be really careful when they come to pick up those computers," Fusco said. "This guy'll kill his own people, he won't hesitate to put down one of us. Or all of us."

"Noted." Moss nodded. "It's good work, Detectives. Instinct and experience. Excellent."

Carter stood up. "Am I done here?"

The paramedic nodded.

"Why don't you go back to the precinct and change?" Moss suggested. "Both of you. I've already called in extra agents to watch the van. We'll call you if anything happens."

Fusco expected her to argue, but Joss simply walked away. "You drive," she said.

He got behind the wheel. He had to spray the windshield and run the wipers to get all the dust and debris off. They were lucky the blast hadn't shattered the windshield.

They'd been lucky on a lot of counts.

He eased out of the spot and made a u-turn. Carter looked at her phone. "Elias called," she said, surprised.

"Sure he did. Why not? Every other weird thing in the world has happened today."

"Yeah." She called him back on speaker. "What have you got, Elias?"

"It's actually what you're got, Detective. Have you spoken with Harold?"

"Not recently." Fusco glanced at her, understanding. Might as well be on the safe side.

"Two prisoners are here at Rikers at your behest. It turns out they're both involved with the bank job."

"Clay and Peterson?"

"Yes."

Fusco whistled.

"Mr. Clay was already in protective isolation," Elias continued. "I had to intervene on Mr. Peterson's behalf."

"Is he safe now?"

"A bit worse for wear, but safe enough, yes."

"Thank you, Elias."

"As you say, Detective, we may have our differences, but this is _our_ city to divide. I am not amenable to the idea of outsiders taking it apart."

Carter clicked off her phone, put her head back on the headrest, and closed her eyes.

"You sure you're okay?" Fusco worried.

"Been a hell of a day, Fusco."

"Yeah, it has."

"We have to figure out what to tell Moss about the two we've already got locked up."

He nodded. His ears were still ringing. "I could use a shower. I do my best thinking in the shower."

Carter was silent for a moment. Then she chuckled. "I wish I hadn't thought about that as long as I did."

He grinned. "Yeah, well, that's your own fault for having a dirty mind."

* * *

Christine had some hopes for normalcy at Chaos. Not peace and quiet, of course, because that was never what the cybercafé was about, but routine chaos instead of the challenges of publicity and high fashion.

Igor Zubec met her at the door. His face was flushed and he looked agitated. Nothing much agitated Igor. "What?" she asked.

He simply gestured.

The café was surprisingly empty – or at least the center of the room was. The patrons were mostly crowded against the walls. The center table was occupied by a single man – a massive, belligerent, and very drunk Teeny Bellatore.

He had a half-empty bottle of Scotch in his hand, and he was drinking straight from it.

"Really?" Christine asked.

"He's been here about half an hour. He finished the first bottle already."

"Holly?"

"Yep."

She took a deep breath. "Well, then."

"Be careful," her barista advised. He was nearly as tall as Bellatore, but much lighter. And his years in various military organizations hadn't given him any confidence he could take the man.

"Stay close," Christine returned. She squared her shoulders and walked over to the former mob boss.

* * *

Moss questioned the two men they'd rescued and arrested. Both were pretty shaken by the explosion, and both were willing to talk.

They both named their associates, which gave Carter a chance to tell Moss that the other two were in custody at Rikers. "They got into some street corner beef, ended up trying to steal a patrol car," she explained. "The young one, Clay, he's a snitch for us sometimes, so I put him in protective. Nobody said anything about the bank job, though."

Moss shrugged. "Happens sometimes. Criminals get caught on unrelated offenses. Capote and tax evasion."

"Well, anyhow, we've got them locked up, when you're ready to question them."

"Good to know. Thank you, Detective."

Moss went back in to talk to Andreani. Nekl had given him up as the leader of the crew. "Who hired you?"

"Same guy who tried to kill me."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. Some guy on the phone with an accent. Brit. He wired money into my account."

"He wired the money in advance?" Moss asked. "Because your friend said you were getting paid afterwards."

Andreani shook his head. "I got half up front. I didn't tell the guys because I didn't want them getting all stupid. I told them the guy had other jobs lined up for us if this went right, that it was like a try-out. And he did say he'd have other jobs, but … yeah. I got some money up front. It's all there."

Moss took down the account number and gave it to one of his agents. In five minutes LaBlanca was back with news: There _had_ been ten thousand dollars in the account, but it had already been withdrawn, electronically, about the same time as the car exploded.

"Double-crossing son of a bitch," Andreani said.

"So help me find him," Moss suggested.

The burglar was more than happy to help. Unfortunately, he didn't know much. A man had called him out of the blue, but he seemed to know an awful lot about him. The crew was supposed to leave the van and take the car, and the money would be wired in by the end of the day. That was all he knew.

Watching through the glass, Carter rubbed her temples. The explosion, and the whole damn day, had given her a massive headache. They were missing something.

The accent. Something about the accent.

She listened to Andreani ramble a little more. Clay, he said when Moss asked, was just a local pick-up. They needed someone who knew his way around the city.

Carter sat up straight. The accent. "Where's this guy from?" she asked.

"Upstate," Sherri said. "Albany."

"Albany." Carter got up and rapped on the window. Moss came to the door. "Ask him _when_ he got this first phone call," she told him.

Moss looked at her. "Aw, hell."

"Uh-huh."

The agent went back into the room. "You said this man with the accent called you out of the blue. When was that?"

"Tuesday," Andreani answered immediately. "In the afternoon. I was hanging around one of those day-labor places, but by then I knew I wasn't going to get any work …"

He kept talking, but Carter could see that Moss wasn't listening. He was thinking, furiously. So was she. If the burglars had been hired on Tuesday, _before_ the missiles were launched – of course, she wasn't supposed to know about Wednesday's attempted terrorist attack. But she _did_ know, and the implications were staggering.

The whole thing – _the whole damn thing_, from the missiles to the break-in to the car blowing up – had been a test. Someone somewhere was poking at the government's defenses. Looking for openings. Prodding for weaknesses.

She wondered bleakly if they'd passed the test.

Moss was pale. Carter knew he understood exactly what she did. Even the man with the accent was probably just another layer, a front for the real genius behind this thing. Someone with access to everything from surveillance cameras to computers to missile launch codes. Someone who'd been able to use all the information …

She only knew one person with that kind of skills, and she was pretty sure he'd had nothing to do with it. Which meant …

Which meant that there was someone that she didn't know about.

Or else Elias was right, and it wasn't a person at all, but a government agency. That made more sense, actually. If not the government, maybe some major paramilitary group like the one that had sent Stanton to kidnap John …

Her headache got worse.

The only thing that made it any better was that Moss looked like he was scared to death. He saw all the implications, too. And he wasn't Nicholas Donnelly, but he was a damn good investigator. He wouldn't let this go.

* * *

No one showed up to pick up the van full of computers during the rest of the day.


	14. Chapter 14

Reese strode up the library stairs two at a time. Bear waited to greet him at the top with his usual happy enthusiasm. Smoky sauntered over, and Reese picked up the cat and carried her to the workroom. He always felt like a Bond villain when he held the sleek gray cat in his arms.

Finch was already at work, and judging by the scowl on his face as he bent over the keyboard, it was not going well.

"New Number?" Reese asked. He rubbed the cat's ears and she purred very loudly.

Harold glanced up, scowled deeper. "Are all cats that loud?" he demanded.

"Only the happy ones."

The genius growled. "A new Number, yes. But not a person we are unfamiliar with." He stabbed at a button and the color printer behind him crackled to life. Reese dropped the cat into the cardboard box at Finch's elbow and went to retrieve the picture. "Teeny Bellatore," he said, surprised.

"Yes."

Bellatore had been a major mob boss in New York, but he'd retired two decades before. "Did he move back to the city?"

"Not that I can tell. But he's visiting again. He used his credit card to book a room at the Hilton Downtown for the weekend."

"With his loving wife, of course."

"Of course."

Christine Fitzgerald had known Bellatore when she was a child. She'd been in his bar – now her cyber café – when Holly Goode had shot him repeatedly at point-blank range with a gun he'd given her as a gift. He'd only survived because he was massive and the gun was tiny.

Holly had served nearly twenty years for attempted murder. Bellatore had waited for her. When she was released, he'd married her. Christine had predicted with absolute certainty that Holly was going to either get the retired gangster killed or kill him herself. They had no reason to doubt her prediction.

"I guess I'll head over to the Hilton, then," John said.

"He's not there," Finch sighed. "I called. I took the liberty of representing myself as a member of the New York Police Department. They said that he left alone late yesterday and has not returned."

John walked around the desk and stuck the picture on the board. "And Holly?"

"Still at the hotel. And being quite … demanding."

"No other activity on his credit card?"

"The last transaction was at the hotel bar. He bought three bottles of their finest Scotch."

"So he may be holed up somewhere drinking."

Finch scowled again. "Wherever he is, he hasn't used his credit card to check in. Of course, he probably carries a great deal of cash. And he has old connections all over the city."

"He could be anywhere."

"We can start from the premise that Holly Goode represents the greatest threat, but there are of course other possibilities."

"We need to find him," Reese said. "Did you call Christine?"

Finch looked at him.

"He owned the bar," Reese reminded him. "She and Zubec were both friends of his. He might have been in touch." He brought his phone out, put it on speaker, and called her.

"Morning, sweetie," Christine answered sleepily.

"Good morning. Finch is here with me. We're looking for Teeny Bellatore."

There was a long pause. "Uh-huh."

Reese frowned at Finch. "Do you know where he is?"

"Do you _not_ know where he is?" she returned.

"We do not," Finch confirmed.

"Yeah, bullshit, you stalker freaks. Hang on." After another pause, she said, "Here's your visual."

Reese clicked the screen to the video app.

They heard the sound first. A slow, deep noise that grew louder and softer in a steady rhythm. Then the picture came up. It was shot from the doorway of Christine's bedroom – her old bedroom, at Chaos – and pointed toward the bed.

Teeny Bellatore was sprawled on his back, fully dressed except for his shoes, dead asleep and snoring heavily.

There was a bottle of Scotch on the nightstand beside him, a quarter full.

"Happy?" Christine asked over the snoring.

"What is he doing there?" Finch demanded.

"Sleeping off a bender," she answered simply.

"Can you keep him there?" Reese asked.

"I can keep him here until he wakes up. After that it's a crap shoot. Why?"

"His Number's come up," Finch told her. "His life is probably in danger."

"Or else," Reese amended, "he's planning to kill someone."

The video clicked off; only Christine's voice remained. "Holly's trying to kill him."

"Are you sure?"

"They had a big fight," she reported. "He got drunk and turned up here with another bottle in his fist. So we kept him. If he meant to kill _her_, he would have done it last night."

Reese glanced at Finch and nodded. That made sense. "Stall him as long as you can," he requested. "If he wakes up, make him breakfast, suggest he take a shower. Hide his shoes. Or make him take you to brunch. Whatever you can do."

"You got it."

"And let us know if he leaves," Finch added.

"Okay."

"Thank you." Reese put the phone away. "Well, that's something."

"I'm not sure I approve of Miss Fitzgerald becoming involved with Mr. Bellatore again," Finch groused.

"If I were you, Finch, I wouldn't mention that. You've pushed your interference far enough for a while."

"I have not interfered …" Reese grinned, and Harold stopped in mid-word. "Very well. I will keep my opinions to myself. For the moment."

"Wise choice." John looked at the board again. "What can you tell me about Holly?"

* * *

Holly Goode Bellatore was not a smart woman. She'd used her card at the ATM in the hotel lobby to take out five thousand dollars. She'd used her cell phone to call a name named Juan Torres. Torres had called a man he called his cousin to bring him a large-caliber weapon that would drop a "really really big man".

Finch called Carter. She was still working the computer theft, but she called in one of the other detectives on the Homicide Task Force, a man named Dickerson that Reese had seen around once or twice.

Dickerson was in the lobby of the hotel when Holly met with Torres and gave him the down payment on the hit. He listened while they arranged a place. Torres went to pick up his weapon. Holly called her husband's phone and left a message asking him to meet her in front of Macy's a noon.

Reese stayed close by to watch, but it was just a formality. He didn't need to get involved. Christine had pocketed Bellatore's phone, and the big man was still passed out in her bed.

Sometimes the Machine gave them complicated Numbers. Sometimes – more often than not – the cases were simple or stupid. Holly Goode Bellatore's plan to have her husband murdered was both simple and stupid.

Dickerson waited outside of Macy's until Holly called her husband again and he heard her say, "Where the hell are you, you asshole?" Then he arrested both her and Torres. The hit man was carrying a large, unregistered weapon.

Holly denied that she knew Torres. Torres started talking before they even got him in the squad car.

"Nothing to it," Reese reported over his headset. "We're done here."

"And not a single kneecap injured," Finch agreed. "I'll let the detectives know we've resolved the matter."

"Lunch?"

"I could eat."

"I'll pick you up."

* * *

No one had come to pick up the computers.

Eight FBI agents, plus Moss, kept watch from various points around the parking lot. Four NYPD detectives joined them.

Fifteen people, Fusco thought impatiently, watched a truck full of decoy equipment parked at the far end of a mostly-empty parking lot. His tax dollars at work. It was like watching grass grow, but slower. He and Carter were on the roof of a near-by building with Moss and some other guy. He'd enjoyed the peace and quiet for a while, but after the first few hours the coffee ran out and he was bored spitless.

He should have brought a lawn chair.

He didn't think much about it when Moss' phone rang; it had been ringing all day. But the agent turned to look at him, and then at Carter, as he spoke. He seemed concerned. He looked away, then back, and he kept talking.

"Carter," Fusco said quietly. "Something's up."

She moved closer. "Any guesses?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Unless it's our _friends_ somehow."

Carter growled. "It better not be."

Moss put his phone away and walked over to them. "Detective Carter. I understand that you got a tip on a planned homicide this morning?"

She bristled, but nodded. "I turned it over to one of the other detectives. He's already made arrests."

"The target was the former mob boss known as Teeny Bellatore?"

"His wife wanted him dead. No idea why. But apparently the tip panned out."

"So what's the problem?" Fusco asked uneasily.

"Bellatore's at the Eighth Predict," Moss answered, "with Christine Fitzgerald. I would really like to know why."

"They're friends," Fusco supplied. "He used to own Chaos. Back when it was a bar."

Moss rubbed his forehead. He hadn't slept much for several days and it showed. "The woman that some super-secret government agency has selected to defend the country in case of dire emergency is friends with a notorious mob boss? Is that what you're telling me, Detective?"

"Well, I don't know how close they are," he amended. "But I know they know each other."

"You want us to go back there and see what we can find out?" Carter offered.

"If you would," Moss answered wearily.

* * *

Outside the precinct, Maxine Angelis checked the photos on her phone. She picked the best one and sent it to Glen. Then she called him. "You get the pic?"

"Yeah," he answered. "That's more like it, Max. A real story."

"Who is he?"

"You don't know?"

"I know he looks familiar."

"That's Teeny Bellatore," Glen said. "Used to be a big-time mob boss."

"Used to be? Why'd he quit?"

"His girlfriend tried to murder him. She went to prison, and he disappeared. Went up-state, I heard, but nobody's really sure. He'd back in the city? Why?"

"I'll let you know," Maxine promised. She hung up the phone before he could ask any more questions.

She looked at the other pictures she'd taken. Teeny Bellatore was prominent in all of them, of course. The man was the size of the house. But in several, Scotty Fitzgerald was also clearly visible.

Will Ingram's mystery woman walks into a police station with a mob boss. There _had_ to be a damned story there.

And if Glen didn't want it, Maxine Angelis knew other outlets who would.

* * *

"You got a tip on a murder and you didn't tell me?" Fusco complained mildly in the car.

"We were busy," Carter explained. "And Finch said it would be a simple one. Which is was, apparently. Besides, you don't need to pad your numbers. You're golden."

"True."

Both she and her partner had ridiculously high close and convict numbers since they'd started working with John and Harold. Of course, it helped when you had a source that was never wrong.

"You ever wonder where they get their information?" she asked.

Fusco looked at her. "Scary and the Brain?"

"Yeah."

"Nope."

"Never?"

"Nope. And if I ever do, I take that question by the neck, strangle the life out of it, drown it in the toilet and bury it in the basement. The way I see it, if I _did_ know where they get their information, it would scare me to death. So no. I don't want to know."

"Hmmm."

"I know, you ain't like me, Carter. It chews on you, doesn't it? Wondering?"

She nodded. "I know you're probably right. I know if I knew …" She shook her head. "But I'd rather know."

"Well, do me a favor," Fusco said. "If you ever find out? Don't tell me."

Carter grinned. "I promise."

* * *

Christine Fitzgerald was sitting on a table outside the interview room, swinging her feet like a little kid. She smiled at Carter and Fusco. "Thought you were off playing with the Feds."

"Moss sent us to find out what you're up to," Carter said. "Where's Teeny?"

She gestured toward the room. "In there, with Holly. And an attorney. He's trying to bail her out."

Dickerson came over. "This is ridiculous. She already shot him once herself. She goes out and hires a hit man to kill him this time. And he still thinks she loves him."

"Love is blind," Carter said, "and sometimes dumb."

The attorney came out of the interview room. He was tall and slender and very expensively groomed. He was also the slickest defense attorney money could buy.

"He hired Sammy the Shark for her?" Fusco asked.

Sammy joined them around the table. "Detectives," he said. "Scotty."

"Hey, Sammy."

"You really think you're going to get her out on bail?" Dickerson asked. "You know she's guilty."

"I don't care if she's guilty," the attorney replied. "That's not what I get paid for."

"You're not going to get paid if you get her out and she caps his ass," Christine observed.

"I'm not going to get paid if I _don't_ get her out and _he_ caps _my_ ass," he replied.

"True enough."

"Get your money up front," Fusco advised. "Cause one way or another, someone's gonna end up dead."

"Moss wants to know what you're doing here," Carter asked Fitzgerald.

She shook her head. "I guess they got in a big fight yesterday. Teeny showed up at Chaos, already drunk and with a bottle in his hand, so we threw him in my bed and let him sleep it off. And then …" she paused, and Carter could almost hear her editing out the parts about John and Harold, "this morning he got a call to come get her out of jail. I tried to talk him out of it, but he can be a little stubborn."

"That's for damn sure," Sammy agreed. "And she's in there telling him how it's all a big mistake, how she was just going shopping with the money, going to buy something nice for him. And he's buying it like it was half price."

"Wait a minute," Fusco said. "Teeny Bellatore spent last night at your place?"

"At Chaos, yeah. I left that apartment all set up. We couldn't move him."

"Well, good for you," Sammy said. "You can claim the old mob boss spent the last night of his life in your bed. Good for the street cred."

"Yeah," Christine said. "Because that's what I'm worried about, my street cred."

"Isn't Holly supposed to be crazy jealous?" Fusco pressed.

She nodded. "The first time she shot him, it was because he had a floozy on his lap."

He held his hand out. "Come with me. Carter, get the door."

"What door?" Carter asked. But she followed, because she knew Fusco had something good in mind.

He led Christine into the side hallway just outside the interview room. Through the window, Carter could see Teeny and Holly holding hands on the table. The woman's hands were in cuffs, but she wasn't secured to anything. She probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet; no one was worried about her doing any physical harm.

She pulled the door open. "Let's get moving," she said over her shoulder.

"All I'm saying," Fusco said loudly, to Christine, "is all these reporters are watching you, you can't be hooking up with some mob boss right there over the bar."

"He was _drunk_," Christine retorted. "I mean, yeah, he ended up in my bed, but it wasn't …"

"_What_?" Holly shrieked.

"Nothing happened," Teeny assured her. "I just fell asleep, that's all."

"That's why you didn't answer your phone? You were with that little Mick bastard?"

"Hey, wait a minute," Christine protested.

"You're sleeping with that little slut? You miserable bastard!"

"Nothing happened, I swear," Teeny protested meekly. "Holly, you gotta understand, you gotta believe me."

"Believe you? You stupid fucking bastard! I was waiting for you to come back and you were out fucking around with that little tramp! I should have fucking killed you the first time!"

She lunged across the table and got her hands on his neck. _On_ his neck, Carter noted, not _around _it. She didn't know exactly how big around Teeny Bellatore's neck was, but she was sure his shirts had to be custom-made. No normal person was going to get their hands around his neck, and certainly not a woman as small as Holly.

Holly figured that out. She switched up to trying to choke him with the chain on her handcuffs.

The whole time she screamed obscenities at him, and the whole time Teeny murmured at her, trying to calm her down.

Carter moved in, with Fusco behind her, and they pulled the woman back off her husband, planted her in her chair, and held her there by her shoulders. "Stay there," she said, "and shut up."

"I will fucking kill you!" Holly screamed. "I fucking hate you and I will fucking kill you!"

Teeny stood up slowly. "You don't mean that."

"I mean it! I fucking hate you! I will fucking kill you!"

"Holly …"

"Die! Why won't you just fucking die and leave me alone!"

"But Holly …"

The woman started up again. Carter jerked her up out of her chair. "Out," she said. She propelled the small woman out the door. Dickerson took custody of her and ushered her back toward the holding cell.

Which left Teeny Bellatore towering over the table with an expression of grief and rage on his face.

Fusco was standing across for him, clearly struggling to find something to say.

Then Christine slipped past them and put her arms around the giant man – as far as she could reach, anyhow. "It's okay, Teeny. It's okay."

His arms folded around her. It looked like a big oak door swinging shut. Then he sank back into his chair. He shifted his grip so his arms were around Christine's waist. She cradled her head against her chest and began to rock, very gently.

Carter took Fusco's arm and drew him out of the room. Sammy the Shark looked at them. "Well?"

"I think you're done here," Carter told him, "but give it a while."

* * *

It took Christine half an hour to get the big man calmed down. Fusco called Moss and gave him an update while they waited. There hadn't been any action on the computers anyhow.

The hacker finally came out and gestured Sammy the Shark into the room. He spoke to Bellatore briefly, then came back out, waved to the detectives, and walked out of the precinct.

Shortly after, Christine and Bellatore came out. "I fire the Shark," Teeny said. "She can get her own damn lawyer. I'm gettin' a divorce."

"I think that's a good choice," Carter said.

"Can you drop us back at his hotel?" Christine asked.

"Sure."

Fusco opened the front door of the precinct. Carter went out first, and then Christine. Bellatore followed them – and the Fusco ran squarely into the big man's back when he stopped dead.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

Bellatore stepped to one side. "Who's that?" he demanded.

_That_ was Maxine Angelis. She was standing in the middle of the front steps. She was almost nose-to-nose with Carter, but she was looking over the detective's shoulder at Christine.

"Shit," Fusco said. He moved forward, past the big mob boss, and reached for the reporter's arm.

"I spoke to Billy Jorgansen," Angelis said as he grabbed her.

"So what."

But she wasn't talking to him. She was staring at Christine. The hacker stared back. After a long moment, she held one hand up. "It's okay," she said quietly. "I'll talk to her."

"You sure?" Carter asked.

"Yeah."

"I don't know who that is," Bellatore said, "but I don't think you need to talk to her."

"It's okay," Christine said again. She never took her eyes off the reporter. Fusco recognized her behavior: She was very sternly not behaving like prey. "Could you take Mr. Bellatore back to his hotel, please?"

"Carter can take him," Fusco said. "I'll stay with you."

She shot him a quick look, saw that he wasn't backing down.

He could have kissed his partner for not arguing. "You need anything," Carter said, "give me a yell." She led Bellatore out to her car.

Christine gestured. "Let's go across the street." She walked the rest of the way down the steps and jaywalked through traffic to the little diner across the street.

Fusco watched Angelis follow her. He stayed back a few steps and pulled out his phone. He didn't bother to speak. He just pushed the number and put it back in his jacket pocket.

He was real sure Tall Dark and Brooding and his Mensa companion would want to listen in.


	15. Chapter 15

They sat in a booth at the very back of the café. Christine parked herself in the corner with her back to the wall. Fusco slid in next to her. Maxine sat across from them, in the center of the bench.

The waitress recognized Fusco and brought them coffee without asking. He waved away the menus.

The two women stared at each other.

"You're Christine Fitzgerald," Angelis finally said. "Your friends call you Scotty."

Christine cupped her hands around her coffee mug. She didn't taste it.

"What are you doing with Teeny Bellatore?"

No answer.

"Is he suspected of a crime? Is that why he was in the police station?"

She didn't answer. Maxine looked to Fusco, but he wasn't about to tell her anything.

"Why did you come over here with me if you weren't going to talk to me?"

Fusco glanced at his companion. He half-expected her to start growling. But her face was completely blank, almost eerily flat.

Angelis saw it, too. And while Christine had had a great deal of practice covering any fear she felt, the reporter did not. He saw the doubt flash across her face, beyond her ability to control it. "Or are you just planning to hack more of my stuff as soon as you walk out of here?"

"That depends," Christine said, "on how this conversation goes."

Her voice sent a shiver up Fusco's back. She'd been learning from Reese. That was his straight-up _I haven't decided how I want to kill you yet_ voice.

Angelis swallowed. "How are you connected to Will Ingram?"

Christine's fingers tapped the side of her mug, just once. "You said you talked to Jorgansen. If I answer your questions, you will make absolutely no mention of him or of the child in your reporting. Not a single word to indicate that she even exists. Do you understand?"

"I don't accept ultimatums."

Christine smiled, and Fusco felt the shiver again. It was Reese's smile, too. The wolf smile. "Good," she said. "Then I don't have to talk to you."

"Who is she? This child? Why is protecting her so important to you?"

"She's an innocent young girl who's been hurt by someone she should have been able to trust. Maybe a better question would be, why _isn't_ protecting her more important to _you_?"

The reporter started to argue, then thought better of it. She brought out a little notebook and a pen. "Alright. What's your relationship with Will Ingram?"

"We're friends."

"Just friends."

"Men and women can't be just friends?"

"Are you friends with benefits?"

"Sexual benefits?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Christine sighed. "I think of him more like a brother."

"Really?"

"No. But I don't have any interest in sleeping with him."

In his pocket, Fusco felt his phone vibrate just once. Mr. Ex-G-Man or Dr. Genius, or both, were listening in. It made him feel better. But Christine seemed to have the situation under control.

"Why were you in Ingram's apartment in the middle of the night?" Angelis asked.

"His fiancée was there, too," Fusco pointed out.

The reporter looked back to his companion. "Why were you there?"

"If you've talked to Jorgansen, you already know why."

"I know you got shot by a pedophile. In a police precinct. Was the girl there, too?" Her pen paused over the paper. "What, you stepped in front of a bullet to protect her? Seriously?"

Fusco nodded, but Christine shook her head. "You won't mention the pedophile, or anything about child. I was injured earlier in the day. That's all you need to say. How and where is irrelevant."

"I need to hear the whole story to decide that."

"No, you don't."

"But can't I just …"

"You seem to think we're negotiating. We're not. This is strictly a take it or leave it deal. You leave everything about the child out of it, or we're done."

Maxine bristled. "You know I can find out other places …"

"You can't, or you wouldn't be following me."

The reporter sat back. "All right. No mention of the child. So why were you in the loft that night? And how did you and Ingram both end up covered with blood?"

Christine was silent for a long moment. Then she sipped her coffee and told her story.

Fusco listened. She left some details out, and she didn't elaborate on anything. Her words were short and clipped. But she told the reporter about her friendship with Will Ingram and Julie Carson. About the shooting, and how she'd gone home with them at the emergency room doctor's insistence. And about the non-profit organization they were going to form together to provide clean energy to underserved populations.

The detective could see Angelis grow inpatient with this last part. She didn't give a crap about clean energy. "What about Teeny Bellatore?" she asked.

"He's an old friend."

Maxine glanced at Fusco. "What's he suspected of?"

"Nothing."

"Then why …"

"He's a witness, not a suspect."

"A witness to what?"

Fusco shook his head.

"That's your story," Christine said. "Or your non-story, rather. I'm not sleeping with Will Ingram. He's not cheating on Julie Carson. They're planning to try to do something big and good in the world. That's it."

"They're definitely engaged, then?"

She sighed. "Yes, fine. There's your scoop. They're definitely engaged. They plan to announce it this week anyhow, but there you go. Knock yourself out."

Maxine thought about it. "If that's all there is, why have you made such a big deal about avoiding me? Why hack the _Journal_'s website? Why not just talk to me?"

"I'm a private person. I'd rather not have my picture in the paper. Ever. And Will and Julie are easy targets simply because they're wealthy. They want to be left alone. It's not that complicated."

"And I can print all of this?"

Christine shrugged. "If I say yes, will you go away and leave us alone?"

"I'll try calling you instead of stalking you, anyhow."

"I meant what I said before," Christine said. "If anything about the girl comes out – I don't mean just her name, I mean _anything_ that might identify her, any mention of her at all – I will burn everything you touch. Your job, your apartment, your bank accounts, everything. I will make your life a living electronic hell. Am I clear?"

"Did you know her before the shooting? Is she …"

There was a shadow over the table suddenly. Fusco looked up – straight into Simmons' massive chest. But the big guy wasn't looking at him. "You Fitzgerald?" he asked.

"Yes."

He backed up, gestured for Fusco to get out of the booth. "We need to go."

"Go where?"

"What's going on?" Maxine asked. "Where are you taking her?"

"Out of here."

Fusco stood up and looked toward the street. Outside the café, there was a big crowd gathered. "What the hell is that?"

"Friends of hers," Simmons said, jerking his thumb toward the reporter. He held his hand out for Christine. "Let's go."

She slid out of the booth and stood up. For a moment she looked into Simmons' face. Fusco couldn't tell if she recognized him or not; she'd been very high the first time they'd met. Simmons sure didn't recognize her: she's been a filthy, starving little junkie last time he'd seen her. But from the way Christine squared her shoulders, at least something in her remembered that he was dangerous.

She looked at Maxine. "What did you do?"

"I just … I didn't …"

"Let's go," Simmons said. He took her arm.

Christine reached out and grabbed Fusco's hand.

Simmons had other uniforms standing by outside. He shoved through the line, dragging Christine behind him. Fusco stuck close to her. People crowded around, shouting questions, shoving microphones and cameras at her. She kept her head down and kept moving. Fusco's car was parked on the street right in front of them. A uniform got out of the driver's seat and held the door open for him.

Simmons opened the passenger door and did the standard tuck-and-stuff to get Christine in. He slammed the door, then shoved the crowding reporters back roughly. Fusco hurried around to the driver's side.

"Get her out of here," Simmons ordered.

"How'd you know?" Fusco called over the car.

"FBI called," Simmons smirked. "They think your friend's pretty special, huh?" He shook his head. "Damn vultures. You stay here, we'll chase them off." From the way he balled his fist, he was looking forward to knocking some heads together.

Fusco got in the car and drove. He wasn't especially careful about running over toes.

When they were clear – for the moment – he said, "You okay?"

She nodded grimly. "That bitch."

"I know."

"That _bitch_."

Fusco grinned gently. He was glad she was pissed off. It made her stronger. He had the feeling she was going to need that.

* * *

Carter looked over at the big man as she drove. He was calm now, but so sad that she could feel it across the car. She'd known men to do stupid things for women before, but _this_ man, that so many people were rightfully terrified of – she didn't get it.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

Bellatore nodded. "Just trying to figure it out. Again. Been trying to figure it out for years. Never came up with an answer."

Joss wondered if the right answer, which was obviously _your wife's a psychopath_, would set the big man off. She wasn't sure, so she took the cautious route and kept her mouth shut.

"I mean," Bellatore continued, "I've always known she was a psycho bitch. I just always thought she'd come around, you know? Like if I was nice to her long enough she'd be nice back. I just don't know why I went on believing that for so long. Must be some kind of idiot, huh?"

"Well," Carter answered carefully, "when she was in lock-up and you only saw her once a week, it was probably pretty easy to keep telling yourself that, right?"

"That's true," he agreed. "And she could be awful nice when she wanted something." He shook his head. "Everything she needed, I got for her. Got her a private cell, got her a phone, got her special meals. Anything she asked for, I made sure it happened. And she goes and does this."

"So … maybe now that you've seen her true colors, you can get over her and move on to someone who'll treat you right."

Bellatore snorted. "My mama's dead, Detective. And the only other woman who ever treated me right when she didn't want somethin' from me …" His voice trailed off. "That was a long time ago."

Carter had been involved in a lot of interviews in her career. She knew when to ask questions and when to just wait. The way the big man's voice had softened at the end told her it was time to stay quiet.

"You got kids, Detective?" he finally asked.

She nodded, surprised. "I have a son. He's eighteen."

"I had a son once. A long time ago." He went quiet again for a minute. "I was just a kid myself. Didn't have no business trying to raise one. And his mother was even younger than me. Just a couple dumb-ass kids. But I sure did love that boy. And his mama, too."

This time she heard that he needed a little push. "What's his name?"

"David." He thought about it for a while again. "I quit high school when he was born. Got a job stocking shelves, bagging groceries. It didn't pay much, but it let me buy diapers for him." He chuckled sadly. "I thought I was big shit, I could buy diapers for my baby. Couldn't afford a place for him and his mother, of course, couldn't even pay for formula most weeks, but I could buy diapers and I thought that made me the man."

"That's something," Carter said. "You cared about him. You did your best."

"Loved that boy," he said again. "And he was a smart little shit. Walked at ten months. Always getting into things. Ellie's mom had one of those baby gates across the stairs and he learned to climb right over it before he was a year old. No matter what they did, he got over it. Wonder he didn't fall on his little head. I'd come over after work and there he'd be, sitting on the landing, waiting for me. Big ol' grin on his face, 'cause he knew he'd got away with it again. I sure did love that boy. Loved the way he needed me, you know? Like I was some dumbass kid with a dumbass job, but my little boy didn't know that, he needed me and I did everything I could for him, help him come up right."

"Where is he now?" Joss asked.

Bellatore took a long, deep breath. "When he was four, he got sick. Took them a long time to figure out what it was. Leukemia. Four years old and the poor kid got leukemia. And back then, they didn't … 'course they wouldn't come right out and tell us there was no hope. They kept saying how expensive it would be, to try this or try that. And me with this shithole job packing groceries for old ladies, can't even afford a place for him and Ellie, they're still living with her parents …

"And every week, I'm there packing groceries and I see these wise guys come in, expensive shoes, leather jackets and all, and they just walk up to the counter and the boss gives them an envelope full of money and they walk away with their pockets full for nothing. Me busting my ass and my boy dying and these guys – and even then I was bigger than they were, you know? So one day I follow them out, beat the shit out of them, and take the money. All of it. And I go to the Don and I tell him, I took this off your boys, it's all there, but I need money for my boy and I don't care what I have to do to get it. So he put me to work."

Carter shook her head sadly. She could see it, all of it. This massive man beside her with the bad temper and the worse reputation – just trying to take care of his son. One choice led to another. The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Just wanted his boy to get well, and ended up one of the most notorious crime bosses in the city.

"All that money," Bellatore went on, "and David died anyhow. Nothing they could do, they said. I guess that's probably true. And his mama, Ellie, she said … she said she didn't want no boy who was mobbed up. I bought her all kinds of nice things, I would've bought her a house, but … so that was the end of it."

"How did you end up with Holly?" Carter asked.

He shrugged. "She was drunk. Kinda helpless. Like a kitten, you know? You know it needs help, you go to pick it up and it scratches the shit out of you, but it doesn't really hurt and you know it's just clawing at you 'cause it's scared? And you think, when it gets used to you, when it knows you'll never hurt it, it'll quit clawing."

"But she never did."

"Nope. She never did." He grunted. "Maybe I just stayed with her because she needed me. I mean, after she shot me and she went upstate, I knew she'd need someone outside to look after her. She's just a little bitty thing, even if she does claw at everything that comes close. I was used to taking care of her. I went right on doing it." He shook his head. "But I never should have married her."

"Attempted murder should be grounds for an annulment," Carter said. "Especially the second time around.

"I guess so. I'll talk to my priest."

"Maybe you can ask him whatever happened to Ellie, too."

"Oh, I know what happened to her. She got married. Nice guy. Car mechanic. Real skilled. Honest, too. Had three kids. They're all grown now. He died a couple years back, the husband. Heart attack. I sent a big bunch of flowers to his funeral. She sent a nice note back. Real nice."

"So why don't you go see her?"

"I told you, she don't want no mob guy."

Carter shook her head. "Teeny, you've been retired for more than twenty years."

"Yeah, but …" He thought about it. "Well, maybe." Then he shook his head. "I'm gonna buy a new place upstate. Grow grapes, you know? Always wanted to have a little farm, some open space. Grapes. I've been studying up. Just … I always thought Holly would be there with me. Gonna be awful lonely, with just me." And then, "Maybe I'll get a dog. One of them rescues, huh? One that needs me."

"That sounds like a good plan."

They were silent the rest of the way to the hotel. At the door, Carter said, "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be okay." He reached for the door handle, then stopped. "You do one more thing for me, Detective?"

"If I can."

"You get home tonight, you give that boy of yours a big hug. The biggest tightest hug you can give him, right? And you tell him it's from Teeny. You tell him I reminded you, you're real glad you have him."

"I never forget that," Joss said. "But I'll tell him anyhow."

"You're a nice lady."

"Thanks."

"You want to come up north and grow grapes with me?"

Carter grinned. "I've … got other irons in the fire, I'm afraid. But thanks for the offer."

"Take care."

"You, too."

She watched as the big man lumbered out of the car and up to the door of the hotel.

A nice vineyard upstate. With lots of room and a dog. It wasn't the worst offer she'd ever heard.

Then she laughed to herself and headed back to work.

* * *

PRESS RELEASE

FROM OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER, NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT

FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION

IN RESPONSE TO MULTIPLE INQUIRIES, THE POLICE COMMISSIONER, TOGETHER WITH THE CHIEF OF POLICE, A REPRESENTATIVE FROM THE MAYOR'S OFFICE, AND A REPRESENTATIVE FROM THE CITIZENS' REVIEW BOARD, HAVE REVIEWED THE REPORTS REGARDING THE INCIDENT IN WHICH CHRISTINE B. FITZGERALD WAS INJURED INSIDE THE 15TH PRECINCT LAST MONTH.

ACCORDING TO EYEWITNESS REPORTS, MS. FITZGERALD WAS AN UNARMED CIVILIAN BYSTANDER WHO WAS STRUCK BY GUNFIRE WHEN A DISTURBED CITIZEN OPENED FIRE INSIDE THE PRECINCT. MS. FITZGERALD WAS TREATED AT THE SCENE BY PARAMEDICS AND TRANSPORTED TO THE NEAREST HOSPITAL BY AMBULANCE IN FULL ACCORDANCE WITH STANDARD POLICE PROCEDURES. SHE WAS TREATED AND RELEASED IN THE CARE OF HER PRIVATE PHYSICIAN. LATER, ON THE ADVICE OF THAT PHYSICIAN, SHE WAS TRANSPORTED TO ANOTHER MEDICAL FACILITY FOR ADDITIONAL TREATMENT.

THE SUSPECT IN THE SHOOTING WAS KILLED AT THE SCENE BY POLICE OFFICERS. ALL PROCEDURES REGARDING THE DISCHARGE OF WEAPONS AND THE DEATH OF THE SUSPECT IN THIS INCIDENT WERE FOLLOWED AND ALL REPORTS HAVE BEEN COMPLETED AND FILED SATISFACTORILY. ALL MATERIALS PERTAINING TO THE INCIDENT HAVE BEEN REVIEWED BY THE INTERNAL AFFAIRS DIVISION, IN ACCORDANCE WITH STANDARD DEPARTMENTAL PROCEDURE. NO FINDING OF WRONGDOING WAS RETURNED.

MS. FITZGERALD IS NOT KNOWN TO HAVE HAD ANY KNOWLEDGE OF OR RELATIONSHIP TO THE SUSPECT PRIOR TO THE SHOOTING INCIDENT. AT MS. FITZGERALD'S REQUEST AND OUT OF RESPECT FOR HER PRIVACY, NO FURTHER DETAILS REGARDING THIS MATTER WILL BE RELEASED.

REFER QUESTIONS TO THE PUBLIC RELATIONS DEPARTMENT, NYPD.


	16. Chapter 16

That evening, Julie Carson and Will Ingram sat down to tape a television interview with Michael Murphy for _New York This Morning_. The interview was held in the bare-walled open space on the ground floor of Oasis.

Zoe Morgan stood in the shadows behind the camera with the producer and watched intently. It was always a nervous thing, letting the clients talk openly. They'd been well-prepared, but anything could happen. That's why she had insisted on taping in advance, rather than airing live. Murphy hadn't agreed to let her take anything out before the interview aired on the morning show, but she was sure she could persuade him if it was necessary. She knew a few things that Michael Murphy would want to keep secret.

Julie was a little tight, guarded. Careful. Will was nervous, but a lot more open. Zoe liked the young billionaire, but his lack of reserve made her nervous. He was enthusiastic and friendly and way too trusting.

The young doctor was lucky to have had Harold, and now Julie, to watch out for him. He didn't seem to have enough innate suspicion to survive on his own.

And yet he'd been a doctor in the deepest hellholes on the planet …

Zoe shook her head and listened.

Murphy worked his way through the introduction. It was very well-written: Zoe had had a hand in it, had replaced words like _secretive_ and _guarded_ with words like _reserved_ and _private_. The journalist touched on Will's work with MSF and Julie's with the State Department. He referenced their respective families, and let the matter of wealth speak for itself. And then he started right in with the lede: "I understand that you have a formal announcement to make."

Will grinned engagingly as the camera pulled back. "We have two, actually. The first is that we're going to be married sometime in the near future. And the second …"

"Whoa," Murphy said. "Let's explore that before we move on. First off, congratulations. Can we see the ring?"

Julie managed to not roll her eyes, though Zoe could tell that she wanted to. She held her hand out politely to the reporter, who of course had the camera zoom in. "It's lovely," he said. "Where's it from?"

"It was my mother's," Will answered.

The camera pulled back to the three-shot. "So your mother's aware of your plans, then? And Miss Carson's family?"

"My parents know," she answered, "and some of my siblings. It's hard to keep track of who we've told, but there aren't many secrets in the Carson family."

Murphy smiled. He was the best feel-good reporter in the city, which was one of the reasons Zoe had given him this exclusive. "Will, you're an only child, right? It must be daunting to be marrying into a family as big as the Carsons."

"It is," he admitted freely. "It's, uh, sort of terrifying."

"Have you met the family?"

"I've met some of them. They've really been very welcoming, made me feel very much at home."

"So everyone's excited about this wedding."

They both nodded.

"And you'll get to celebrate at your father's big birthday event this weekend. He's turning seventy-five, right?"

Julie nodded again. "Right. A lot of my extended family will be down in the city for the party. So it will be a good chance for Will to get to know everyone."

Murphy nodded sympathetically. "Terrifying, indeed. Have you set a date?"

"Not yet," Will said, "but we're thinking along the lines of small and soon."

"Oooh, so no big American Royal Wedding?" He sounded genuinely disappointed.

They both laughed uneasily." No," Will said.

"Absolutely not," Julie added.

The reporter moved on to the next subject smoothly. "So tell us what this place is," he gestured to the empty space, "and why we're here."

"This," Will said, "is the future home of our new company. We're going to form a foundation, an initiative, to help provide renewable energy to underserved populations worldwide."

"Renewable – like solar panels?"

"Solar," Julie agreed, "geothermal, hydroelectric, and wind. Or whatever else comes along that's viable. But wind is what most interests us right now. This all started with Will's idea to build a million windmills."

"A million … that's certainly ambitious."

"Might as well aim high," Will said. "The idea's evolved a little since then. We're thinking about the whole range of possibilities, with both proven and developing technologies, and how we can partner with existing groups, all kinds of – we aren't really ready to roll out the whole plan," he admitted. "But with all this press interest this week, we decided we might as well get started."

"A lot of the press," Murphy said sympathetically, "has been about this mystery woman. I know that she spoke today with a reporter from the _New York Journal_ …"

Zoe nodded to herself. Murphy was too much of a pro to put Maxine Angelis' name in his broadcast. She'd also asked him not to.

"Her name is Christine Fitzgerald," Julie said. "We call her Scotty. She's going to join us as our tech guru."

"She's … I'm sorry?"

"Would you like to meet her?" Will offered.

Murphy was completely flabbergasted. He'd been briefed on everything in the interview so far, but he'd only been given the bare bones about the Fitzgerald story, and no clue that she might join them. Zoe liked the sincerity of his surprise. It would play well.

"Is she _here_?" the reporter sputtered. "Yes, of course we'd like to meet her."

* * *

In the stairway, behind the door, Finch touched Christine's arm. "Christine. The people who killed Nathan will be watching his son. They consider him to be harmless and uninvolved with his father's work. It's important that they continue to think that."

She studied him with serious eyes. "You want me to play dumb?"

"I want you to play _smart_."

Christine nodded and went out into the glare of the lights.

* * *

The cameras kept rolling, but Zoe was certain they'd edit out most of the next few minutes. Christine came out of the shadows and they found her a chair and got her micced up. Morgan watched even more closely. Fitzgerald was the wild card in this game. If she stuck to the script they were solid. If she didn't … Zoe wasn't sure even she'd be able to clean it up.

Christine looked very tense. She kept clenching her teeth, grinding them. She smiled, but it looked forced. Ingram shifted seats, so that she was between him and Julie. It wouldn't have been Zoe's choice, but she understood it; Ingram was visibly demonstrating that they'd look after her.

Michael Murphy picked up on her tension, of course. He tried to be charming, disarming. It didn't work, but she appreciated his efforts.

When they were settled again, he said, "Well. So you're the mystery woman."

Christine smiled unconvincingly. "I don't mean to be mysterious. I'm a tech geek. Usually people aren't interested in finding me unless their computer is broken."

"But people certainly are looking for you this week."

She shrugged. "Here I am."

"Well, let's start with the elephant in the room then," Murphy said. "You and Will Ingram are …?"

"Friends," Christine answered immediately. "And to spare everybody the next question, friends _without_ benefits."

Murphy's cheeks colored, but he grinned and nodded. "Thank you. How long have you known each other?"

"We met," Will volunteered quickly, "when Scotty was fourteen. She was a high school intern at IFT."

"So you knew Nathan Ingram?" Murphy prompted.

Christine nodded. "Yes."

"And?"

"And, um, he was really lovely to all of us interns. He took a real interest. I learned a lot."

"But you didn't stay on to work for IFT."

She shook her head. "I was fourteen at the time. After that summer I, um, left the program because of some family issues."

"But you kept in touch with Will?"

"Uh … on and off, yes."

"And when did you meet Julie?" Murphy prompted.

"At Christmas."

"This past Christmas?"

"Yes."

Murphy looked back and forth between the two women. "And you get along? There's no friction or anything?"

Julie shook her head. "I think the only thing we've ever argued about was who got the last cup of coffee. Seriously, we get along great. And Scotty is definitely the third brain we need to get this program off the ground."

"So you're signing on to the, um …"

"Initiative," Christine supplied. "Yeah, I'm going to handle the technical aspects, at least through the set-up."

"She says just for a year," Will said, "but we're going to keep her."

"That will be very interesting," Murphy said. "Are you as excited about it as these two are?"

"Probably not," Christine admitted. "I was, at first, and then I started making lists and there is _so_ much that as to get done. I'm sort of … staggering right now. But it'll get there. We'll build an office and I'll have a little cave to retreat to and then I'll be enthusiastic again."

Zoe nodded to herself. So far, so good. She heard a noise behind her and guessed that Harold was there in the shadows, watching.

"They dream the big dreams and you make them happen?" Murphy supplied.

"We try to help," Will protested. "But every time I look at a computer it gets all flooey." He waved his hands. "Even if they're not my computers, like at airports and stores, those little scanner things won't work for me …"

"It can't be that bad," Murphy chided.

"It is, actually," Julie assured him. "Unless it's medical equipment, we don't let him touch it."

"That could be very challenging."

"It will be."

Murphy turned back to Christine. "So your first challenge will be to build a computer that will let your boss use it?"

"I'm not the boss," Will protested quickly. "We're partners. All three of us."

"And to answer your question," Christine said, "no, I don't think I have the skills for that. I don't think anybody does. I mean, he's had three brand-new, top-of-the-line phones die on him already this year. They just get too close to his heart and give up, somehow."

"Two," Will protested. "I dropped the third one and it got run over by a car."

"It committed suicide," Julie teased.

Christine nodded her agreement. "I think we'll just always have him travel with someone who can key things in for him."

"This is a very ambitious project," Murphy said, "but it sounds like the three of you are having a lot of fun."

"We are," Will said. "I hope we always will. It's serious work, it's tackling serious problems, but I learned with MSF – Doctors Without Borders – you can't stay on the job long if you can't find a way to laugh. So we'll have rock music and cook-outs and karaoke and whatever it takes to keep us sane, so we can keep going."

"So you're going to have a very modern company."

"Absolutely."

"Very different from the climate at IFT."

Will hesitated. "IFT was – is – it was my father's dream. It was his baby, built on his ideas, by his hard work. And I'll be honest, I'm very aware that without the money that came from IFT, I would not be in a position to chase this dream of ours. But … I'm not my father, and I can't run a business the way he did. I just don't have that skill set." He laughed. "Obviously."

"What do you think he'd think of dream of yours?"

This time the hesitation was even longer. "I'm not sure," Will finally admitted. "I think he'd be into it. Supportive of it. My father was very much about innovation, about moving forward with technologies, and in a lot of ways this initiative will be doing that. But also, he was always the most enthusiastic about the new things – a new division, a new project – and the Million Windmills project will always be like that, always a new place, a new well, a new site with new challenges …" He nodded. "I think he'd like it."

Murphy nodded, turned to Julie. "And what does your father think about it?"

"I haven't really had time to sit down and talk with him much about it," Julie answered smoothly. "Or my mother either. I'm hoping we'll get some time this weekend."

"So they don't know anything about it?"

"They know the rough outline. We just haven't had much chance to talk about the details."

"Because we're still making them up," Christine supplied.

"Well, that," Julie admitted with a little laugh. "Honestly, we are just now starting to pull things together and see where we want to start."

"We need a web site," Will said, as if he'd just realized that.

"We have a web site," Christine answered.

"We do?"

"A really primitive, ugly, bare-bones web site, but a web site. ."

"When did you do that?" Julie asked.

"This afternoon. Like I said, it's really primitive, we need to make a ton of decisions about it. But it has a contact list, so people can …" She stopped. "I shouldn't even say this."

"Please, say it," Murphy prompted.

She looked to Will and Julie, then nodded. "If people out there have an idea, a renewable technology that they think we should know about – or if they have a place where that might be a great starting site for us – they can send a message, but please _please_ remember that we don't even have walls yet, so it's going to be several months before we're in a place to actually do anything."

"So leave a message and you'll get back to them eventually."

"Exactly, yes."

Julie shook her head. "You know we're going to get buried, don't you?"

"I do."

"Viewers, please remember to be patient," Murphy added. "As she said, we're in a bare room with no desks or computers or anything else yet. They have been very generous in inviting us in and sharing their time with us, so please be patient."

"And we'll definitely keep track of the suggestions," Christine promised.

Murphy sat back. "So, we've all seen the reporting in the Journal today, and I understand the police commissioner has released a statement. Do you want to tell us about that infamous picture?"

They would cut to it in editing, Zoe was certain.

"The one with all the blood?" Will asked.

"Yes."

"No."

Murphy looked to Christine. "No," she said. "I mean, the story's out there. I got shot in the precinct, and Will and Julie were kind enough to take me home with them because I didn't want to stay in the hospital. And then I needed to go back to the hospital, and that's when the picture was taken."

"The commissioner said you didn't know the man who shot you."

"No. I'd never met him before."

"That must have been very frightening."

"It was. And waking up not able to breathe was terrifying. But these two were there for me, so … I'm still here."

Ingram reached over and took her hand.

"Why were you at the precinct?"

She shook her head. "I can't talk about that."

"You weren't under arrest or anything?"

"No."

Murphy nodded thoughtfully. "The 15th precinct is where the Computer Crimes Unit is headquartered, isn't it?"

"Is it?" She smiled, just a little.

"You don't want to talk about that."

"No, thank you."

He didn't push. "The _Journal_ reported that you were in a different precinct today with Teeny Bellatore. What can you tell us about that?"

"He was not under arrest, either."

"What's your relationship?"

"We're friends."

"With …"

"No," she laughed quickly. "He has no benefits, either."

"You are aware, though, that yours association with him and the launch of this new venture … his history as a mob boss might be somewhat … problematic."

The hacker sat up straighter. Her manner cooled visibly.

"Oh, shit," Zoe said under her breath. She felt a hand on the small of her back, very light. Harold.

Christine looked very deliberately at Julie. "Is it a problem for you?"

"No."

She turned to Will. "Is it a problem for you?"

"Absolutely not."

She looked back to Murphy. "It's not problematic."

"But you can see how it might be for potential donors, potential partners …"

"For starters, Michael, Teeny Bellatore was never convicted of any crime."

"But everyone knows …"

"Everyone knows that he dropped his connections with the mob more than twenty years ago, after a woman attempted to murder him."

"So his reappearance isn't indicative of a potential new mob war?"

"He came down to the city to do some shopping."

"And that's all?"

"Maybe try some new restaurants, catch a show? I don't know."

"You're not worried about him, then?"

Christine considered for a long moment.

"Shit shit shit," Zoe murmured to herself. Harold was silent, but she could hear his breathing grow heavy.

The cameraman glanced over his shoulder at her. She bit her lip.

"I'm not sure I want to say this," the hacker began slowly.

Julie put her hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to."

Christine smiled and leaned into her just for a moment. Then she sat up. "Here's the thing. I, um. I was an abused child. Teeny Bellatore used to let me stay in his bar sometimes. When it wasn't safe for me to go home." She paused. Julie squeezed her shoulder again; Will put his arm behind her, on the back of her chair. She smiled uneasily at both of them, then went on. "It probably wasn't much to him. I mean, I was just a little kid, I was polite and quiet and stayed out of the way. It didn't cost him anything to let me sit way back in the corner and sip ginger ale and read my book. I doubt that he gave it much more than a passing thought. It was just a decent thing to do. But for _me_ … if you've been out on the street when it's pouring down rain or it's so cold it hurts to breathe or it's so hot you just want to melt into a puddle … and if you can imagine a little girl whose only choice is to stay out there or to go home and maybe be beaten again … having a safe place to go was _everything_ to me." She paused again. "So the people who remember him when he was so big in the mob, I get that. I get why they're … concerned. But the Teeny I know is the one who gave me a pat on the back and a little plastic sword with fruit on it and told me I could stay as long as I needed to.

"And that … if one man could make that much difference in my life without even thinking about it, just offhand, just benevolent indifference … how much difference can the three of _us_ make in how many lives if we put our minds to it, our hearts, if we're intentional and persistent about it …"

"If we work at it like it's our job," Julie supplied. She slid her hand down and took Christine's.

"If we _make_ it our job," Will completed, taking her other hand.

Murphy sat back and looked at the three of them. "You said you weren't as excited about this project as they were."

Christine grinned, genuine and shy. "Okay, maybe I'm a _little_ excited."

"I think I'm excited, too," Murphy admitted. "I think I'm watching the beginning of something really remarkable. And I certainly wish you all the success in the world." He nodded, satisfied. "I hope you'll let me come back and update our viewers on your project. I'd really love to talk with you all again."

"Any time," Will said warmly.

"You can talk to _them_," Christine said. "Once I get an office, I'm reverting to my natural geek isolation state."

"We'll lure her out with chocolate for you," Julie promised.

Murphy stood to shake their hands and ended the interview.

Harold vanished into the shadows again.

Zoe Morgan leaned against the bare wall, trying to catch her breath. She'd known Christine would be the wild card, and she'd been right. But she'd played it perfectly; her little speech had been better than anything Zoe could have scripted for her.

They were back on top of things. They'd gotten their story out, the way they wanted it told, and they'd made powerful friends in the press. Once the story had been edited and aired on the morning show, Will and Julie – and Christine – would be celebrities, but they'd be the ordinary kind you saw on the streets of New York all the time. Not the elusive secretive kind that got chased by mobs with cameras and microphones, but the regular sort who shopped at grocery stores and got parking tickets like normal people.

Zoe was pleased with her work – thought she couldn't take all the credit – and very pleased with the outcome.

This was turning into a very advantageous and profitable association all around.

* * *

Carter stopped her sedan just outside the fence next to the basketball court and watched the lone man shoot jump shots. He wasn't bad. She couldn't remember that she'd ever seen John Reese's bare legs before. Of course, she could only see between the top of his socks and the bottom of his gym shorts. His calves were as toned as the rest of him. Naturally. It was cold to be out in just a t-shirt and shorts, but he didn't seem to mind.

He tried for a three-point shot. The ball hit the edge of the backboard, nowhere close to the hoop. As Reese trotted over to retrieve it, she hit her blue flashers for a moment, then switched them off and got out. "Courts are closed after dark," she barked. "Gonna have to ask you to move along."

Reese grinned. He retrieved the ball and dribbled it over to the fence. Carter could see where the sweat made his t-shirt cling to his back; he'd been out here a while. "Just one more shot, Officer?" he pleaded sweetly.

"Detective," she countered tartly, but she smiled back. Up close, she could see the white bandage that peeked out from beneath his shirt sleeve. "You get hurt?"

"Couple days ago. Took a gun to a knife fight." He shrugged.

"Really." She walked around the end of the fence to join him on the court.

"They find something on the computers?"

"Nothing. Just like Finch said."

"And you got your burglars all tucked away at Rikers." He turned and took another shot. It swished through the hoop, nothing but net. Reese let it bounce away. "So what's keeping you up, Joss?"

"Keep thinking about how you know what you know, John. About these people you help."

"Finch is good with computers. I'm good at investigating."

"That's not what I mean."

Reese walked over and got his ball back, then sat down on the metal bench and gestured for Carter to join him. "I can't tell you," he finally said.

"You can't or you won't?"

"Both."

"You can't because Harold won't let you. But why _won't_ you?"

"Because knowing wouldn't help you any. And it would put you in danger."

"I'm a cop, John. Being in danger is pretty much my whole life."

"Different danger." He rolled the ball under his foot. "And more danger than I'm willing to put you in. Not just you, but everyone you care about."

Carter shook her head. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, John. Helping you, breaking the law right and left … lying to Moss, just like I lied to Donnelly. You said once that my moral compass pointed the right way. But the longer I'm involved with you …"

"I know," he said. "I know. And I'm sorry." There was genuine regret in his voice. "Joss ... I'd hate to lose your help, but if you need to cut us loose, I'd understand. Just say the word."

"You'd rather have me quit helping you than tell me the truth?"

He looked at her. In his eyes she saw great gentleness and sadness. "I can't tell you, Joss."

"Then ask Finch to tell me. Ask him. Because I really need to know. This thing with the missiles and the computers – it's huge, isn't it? It's way bigger than you want me to know. I don't care what the risks are. I feel like I'm out here without a net. If I know where you're getting your information, at least I can defend myself if I need to."

"You can't," Reese promised. "And once you know, there's no going back."

"I need to know," she repeated firmly.

He picked up the ball. "If you know, you may not want to keep helping us."

"Then shouldn't that be my decision?"

John was silent for a very long time. "I'll talk to Finch," he finally said. "But I doubt he's going to change his mind." He stood up. "You want to come up, have a beer?"

_End of conversation_, Carter translated. _Fair enough_. "Can't. I've got an early day tomorrow." She stood up, too. "I'll let you off with a warning this time, but remember that the courts close at dark, got it?"

He smiled gently. "Got it, Detective."

"See you around, John."

She walked back to her car. By the time she turned around, he had vanished.


	17. Chapter 17

Christine sat on a folding chair on her newly-laid patio, in the dark, smoking a cigarette. Finch could tell by the smell of the smoke that it was a menthol. That wasn't her preference. She'd probably bummed it from one of the camera crew.

He stood beside her. "Christine …"

"This would not be a good time for you to remind me that I quit smoking," she answered calmly.

"No. I would imagine not." He listened to her silence. She was not angry. But she was very withdrawn. "I just wanted to say … you did very well. Very well. I know it was extremely difficult for you. But you achieved exactly what we needed. The press' curiosity is satisfied, and whatever government entities may be watching have been assured that Will Ingram presents no threat to them in his current endeavor. You were … perfect. And I just … wanted to thank you."

She blew out a long thin strand of smoke. "Kind of the least I could do."

_It hurt_, Harold thought, surprised. He'd thought they were long past score-keeping in their relationship. "You owe me no debt, Christine."

"I owe you everything." Her voice was still even, calm, and she continued to stare into the darkness.

Finch fought for his own calm. "Is that why you agreed to this? Out of a sense of obligation to me?"

Christine shook her head. "What I said about Teeny in there, that was true. You're right that we can't fix the whole world. But we can fix some of it. And it's time. I just needed a little push."

"Well." His breath came easier now. "I'm glad I was able to provide it, then."

She leaned down and crushed out the cigarette on the rock, then stood up and faced him. "You were. In the right measure and at precisely the right time. As usual. But right now, Random, I am hellishly tired. So tomorrow or the next day you can tell me the rest of your plans. But tonight I need to rest."

"Of course you do." He took her hand. "Of course."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Me? I'm fine." Mostly true, he supposed. He'd only let himself check in on Grace's e-mails once since she'd left. She'd send a couple quick notes to friends about how beautiful the area was and how lovely Gregg Everett's daughter was and how well they were getting along, and a promise that she'd catch them all up over the weekend when she got back. Grace was fine. So Harold was fine. Everything was fine. Perfectly fine.

Christine heard the lie in his voice, the one he was trying to tell himself. "You're not. You're still not. I can see it. I just don't know if I can help."

Finch shook his head decisively. "You have helped far more than you know. But like you, I find myself at a place where I – I suppose I need to rest, too. To adjust to my new circumstances. There's nothing to be done."

"You sure? I have a guest room. I hear it's quite comfortable."

"I'm sure it is. But no. Unless you're uneasy about being here alone?"

"No."

"Then go, have your time alone. And I will do the same."

She studied him, her eyes bright in the dim light through the windows. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Good night, Random."

"Good night, sweet Deirdre."

Christine smiled gently and went inside.

Finch stayed where he was for a long moment. He closed his eyes and smelled the air. Beyond the acrid lingering scent of menthol smoke, he could smell rain on the air. And spring. He could finally smell spring. Real spring this time, not the little teases the city had offered up earlier, but real warmth, real growth. Real spring.

Grace was fine. Happy. And the rest of them …

Sartre had written once, _I am not virtuous. Our sons will be if we shed enough blood to give them the right to be._ He and Nathan had not been virtuous. Had never considered being virtuous, until it was too late. But Christine and Will and Julie, they could be virtuous. They'd made room enough for them to fix the world. Maybe.

They'd made room for them to try, anyhow.

He opened his eyes and smiled.

* * *

The interview aired at eight the next morning on _New York This Morning_ on the local station. Excerpts were picked up by the national network and even shorter pieces played on cable news throughout the day. Then, either by coincidence or design, Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian each did something vaguely scandalous and pushed the Carson-Ingram-Fitzgerald story out of the rotation.

* * *

Joss Carter thought she might be physically sick when she walked into the interrogation area at Rikers. She and John and Donnelly had spent so much time here. She'd told so many lies. And this was the last place Nicholas Donnelly had ever been happy.

She could almost feel his spirit watching her through the endless array of surveillance cameras.

"Are you alright, Detective?" Finch said, very quietly.

She glanced at him. Finch was in attorney mode, in a dark, perfectly-tailored suit, stark without a vest or pocket square. He seemed perfectly unperturbed by their surroundings. "Fine," she said. "You're sure this kid's that innocent?"

"Mostly innocent," Finch said. "More than most, I suppose."

"Let's get this over with, then."

The warden looked at her as if he knew everything. But he didn't comment as he left them into one of the rooms. It was not, thankfully, the box where she'd spent so much time pretending to question Reese.

Edward Clay sat at the table. He was young and skinny, with bad skin, and orange was definitely not his color. He looked scared.

He looked at Carter briefly, but his eyes fixed on Finch and went wide. "I … you …"

"I'm your attorney, Mr. Bittern," he said firmly. "This is Detective Carter."

"I … I didn't know I had an attorney," the boy said.

"You do now." Finch held the chair for Joss, then sat down himself. "I thought we'd come to an arrangement about your future, Mr. Clay."

"Yeah, well. It didn't work out." He smiled, attempting bravado, but Carter could tell he was close to tears. "I tried. I really did. But my dad …" He shook his head. "Don't matter. I'm here now." He raised his hands to jingle his cuffs a little. "Guess I got what I deserved after all."

Carter knew right then that Finch was right about this kid, but she went through with the charade anyhow. Seventy-two hours in lock-up had gone a long way toward smartening this kid up. "You tell us about the guys who broke into the bank with you," she said, "and we might be able to work out some kind of deal."

He looked at her, then dropped his eyes. "It doesn't matter, does it? They told me it was just a misdemeanor, because we weren't stealing any money. And I believed them. How dumb is that? I believed them."

"Breaking into a bank is a federal offense, and a felony," Finch confirmed.

"I'm just a dumb ass. My dad's right, I'm just a dumb ass. I should have known better. But I believed them." He shook his head. "But you know what? Maybe it's for the best. I go to prison, at least I get fed regular, right?"

"How many men were there on the crew?" Carter asked.

Clay looked at the table. "I can't. I'm sorry, I can't tell you about them."

"You afraid of them, Eddie? Because all three of them are already locked up, you know."

He shook his head. "I won't rat on my friends."

"Not even to get out of here?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I'm really sorry. But I can't."

Carter sighed. "All three of them ratted you out, you know."

The boy looked up, surprised and hurt. Then he looked down again. "Sorry."

"You don't have to give me the names," Carter said. "How did you meet them?"

The boy looked at Finch, then back at her. "I stole one's wallet. At the bus station. They caught me. They were going to beat me up, but Len asked if I knew my way around the city pretty good. And I said I did, so they let me in." He shrugged. "I really needed the money."

"How much was your cut?"

"Five hundred."

Carter glanced at Finch. The team was supposed to get twenty grand for the job, and they were going to cut the boy in for five hundred. Her brain had the evidence she needed to back up her gut instinct about Clay: The boy might be a dumb ass, but he certainly wasn't a hardened criminal or a full-fledged member of this little gang.

He deserved the break she could give him.

"Why did Chuck Peterson want to kill you?" She'd thought it was so they could cut him out of the payday, but his percent was so small that it hardly mattered.

"There's this soup kitchen," Clay said. "I went there before, when I was on the streets, and I went back because I was … hungry. I was hungry. And there's this guy there, this old black man, well not that old, really, he's … he talks to me like … I go help out and he makes sure I get fed and he … he doesn't look at me like I'm nothing. You know? He acts like I'm …" He shook his head. "So I been hanging out there a lot while we waited to get paid. And Peterson thought I was snitching."

"Who," Finch said, leaning forward, "arranged this burglary? Who hired you?"

"I don't know," Clay said.

"Are you sure?" Carter pressed. "Andreani never mentioned a name?"

The boy thought about it, shook his head. "No. Except this one time he said something about Mr. Fancypants Tea something. I guess the guy had an accent or something."

"A British accent?" Finch asked.

"I don't know. I guess."

"When was the equipment supposed to be delivered?" Carter pressed.

"On Monday. We were supposed to pick up the bins from the recycling plant and drop them off, van and all at this parking lot, and the guy was going to leave a car for us and then send us the rest of the money after he checked the load."

"You know the address?"

Clay shook his head.

"What else can you tell us?" Finch asked.

The boy looked down. "Nothing. We did the break-in and then we all went to this apartment and stayed there until the money came in. I mean, I went to the soup kitchen and wandered around some, but mostly we all just stayed there. And then I went out and Peterson jumped me and that guy …" he paused and looked at Finch. "And then we got arrested. And that's all I know."

Carter sat back. _That guy_, she thought._ That guy in the suit showed up and saved your life, and you know Harold's connected to him. _She wondered, for the millionth time, how John and his partner found the people they helped while there was still time to help them.

She doubted Finch would ever tell her. And until and unless he gave the okay, she knew John never would.

"I'm going to go to prison, aren't I?" he asked sadly.

"We'll see," Finch said, with what sounded like deliberate disinterest.

"I deserve it. I know I do." The boy worked up a sad smile. "Just a useless dumbass, like my dad says. But at least I didn't drag Lis down with me. That's something, huh? I did that right at least."

"We'll see what we can do," Carter promised.

She and Finch left the box. In a quiet corner, she said, "You could have told him we were going to get him out."

Finch shook his head. "The longer he has to think about the possible consequences, the better. And honestly, I don't know what we're going to do with him once we get him released. He obviously can't go home again."

"I don't think he's bright enough to be on his own," Carter said. "He needs some kind of program or mentor or something. But he's legally an adult. There's not much we can do for him."

"Mr. Robinson – the gentleman from the soup kitchen – would try to look out for him, but I'm afraid if he remains in the city, our young man will simply fall prey to the next bad influence that comes along." Finch shook his head. "I wish there was some way to send him off to the country somewhere, as they used to do with wayward children." He pondered. "Maybe I could arrange a job for him …" his voice trailed off. "But he doesn't just need a job away from the city. He needs a strong role model."

"Someone with a firm hand," Joss agreed, "but who won't just tell him he's a dumb ass all the time."

"He needs a good foster home. But he's too old for foster care."

"He needs …" Carter stopped. "I might have an idea. And it's either the best or the worst idea I've ever had."

"Is it worse than robbing a bank with some men you just met and thinking you'll only be charged with a misdemeanor if you're caught?"

"Well, no, it's not quite that bad. Almost, but not quite." She nodded in decision. "We need to get back downtown before he leaves."

"Before who leaves?" Finch asked as he followed her out.

"Teeny Bellatore."

* * *

The van sat in the end space in the otherwise empty parking lot. The overhead lights cast a sickly yellow light over the asphalt. The wind stirred gently through last summer's long-dead weeds.

Alistair Wesley sat in the back seat of a town car parked a block away. He had an unobstructed view of the van. He didn't expect to see anyone approach it. No one did.

He glanced at his watch. It was precisely the time they'd arranged for the hand-off.

His phone – the new burner – rang. "Where are you?" he asked.

The electronic voice said, "The equipment is compromised."

"How do you know?"

"The same way you should know. The police switched out the equipment for decoys two days ago. Also they're watching the van right now. The deal's off. Obviously."

"Well." Wesley gestured, and the driver started the car. "Since you intended to pay me with money you stole from my own account, I suppose we should just call it even."

There was a brief bit of static that might have been a chuckle through the voice filter. "You're more clever than I thought you'd be. Almost a worthy adversary. It's a shame we can't do business together."

"You might at least offer to cover my expenses."

"I might. But I won't."

"I thought not." He nodded again and the driver started off. "Well. I imagine we'll encounter one another again."

"I look forward to it."

Wesley clicked off the phone and threw it out the window.

In the rear view mirror, he saw the flash of orange as the van blew up.

* * *

Into the dead air of the now-one-partied conversation, the electronic voice said, "I know you're listening. I have a name for you."

* * *

Donnelly sat up. He touched his keyboard, rewound the conversation to that last bit. He played it again.

"Director Poole! We have a name."

Poole came to the doorway. "Tell me."

"Alistair Wesley."

"Who the hell is he?"

"That's what I'm about to find out." Donnelly grinned and pulled his keyboard to him.

Edward Clay swallowed hard. "He tried to kill me the last time, you know."

"If he'd meant to kill you," Reese assured him, "he would have done it." He knocked on the door.

Carter opened it and gestured them in. "Edward Clay," she said formally, "this is Mr. Bellatore."

"We met," Bellatore grumbled. "You're the wiseass who made Holly cry."

Clay stayed very close to Reese. "Yes, sir. I'm very sorry."

"She tried to kill me again," Teeny said. "Guess I'm going to divorce her."

"I'm … um … sorry to hear that."

"Which part you sorry about?"

The boy looked panicked. "I don't … both, I guess. I mean … yeah, both."

The big man laughed. "I ain't gonna hit you again, kid. I know I'm scary-lookin', but I'm really not a violent man most times."

"Okay."

"Guy looks like me, kid, he don't need to swing his weight around very often. Big dogs don't bite much."

"Mr. Bellatore," Carter said, "is planning to purchase a vineyard upstate. He'll be needing someone to help him."

"Help him …?"

"What do you know about grapes?" Teeny asked.

"Um … nothing."

"Good. Then we're even. You know about dogs?"

"Yes. Yes, sir. My family's had dogs all my life."

"Well, good. You can help me pick a dog, then. That's the first thing. Gonna get a dog. Always wanted a dog."

"I think … the first thing would be to buy a place. Then you'll know what kind of dog you should look for. Or dogs. Sir."

"Dogs?"

"Well, they're pack animals. They don't like to be alone. I mean, in a little apartment or whatever, sure, but they need to go to the dog park or walks or whatever, see other dogs. If you've got a lot of room for them to run, maybe think about getting a couple so they're not alone. Otherwise they get bored and chew stuff, crap on the carpet, stuff like that."

Bellatore considered. "Just like people, huh? Give them something to do or they get in trouble on their own." He looked to Carter. "I think we could get along."

"Congratulations, Clay," Reese said, patting him on the shoulder. "You're in the wine business."

* * *

"We'll need to monitor the situation," Finch said, at the library. "On the off chance that Mr. Bellatore does decide to return to his criminal ways."

"I've got a good feeling about this, Finch." Reese shrugged. "But yeah, it wouldn't hurt to listen in once in a while."

Harold nodded briefly and went back to his keyboard.

Reese leaned his hip against the desk. "Carter's asking about where we get our information again."

Finch grunted without looking up from his keyboard. "What did you tell her?"

"That I couldn't tell her. Same as always."

"But?"

"No but. She's concerned. And curious. After the near-miss with the missiles, I can't really blame her."

Finch looked up. "You know, Mr. Reese, how I feel about sharing this information. Knowledge of the Machine has proven to be deadly on a number of occasions."

"I know."

"And you know it's not a question of trust."

"I know that, too."

Finch sighed. "Did she threaten to withhold her assistance if she's not told the truth?"

"No, of course not."

"Then I suppose we have our answer, don't we?"

* * *

Christine Fitzgerald was clearing tables in the café on Wednesday night when the news van pulled up outside. "Now what?" she muttered.

"I can keep them out," Zubec offered.

"No, let's …" Her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and swore. "Yes, please. Keep them out." She answered the phone. "Michael Murphy. What's up?"

"Have you heard the story?" the reporter asked.

"A new story?"

"Yes."

"About me?"

He took a little breath. "Are you Nathan Ingram's illegitimate child?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you Will Ingram's half-sister?"

Christine squinted toward the front window, where Zubec was standing guard with his arms folded like the a hairy Mr. Clean. "Seriously? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"So that's a no."

"Yes, that's a no."

"Is there any possibility? Have you ever heard that suggested before?"

"No." Christine shook her head. "No. That's not even … no. There is absolutely no truth to that rumor."

"Can I come and get that answer on camera?"

"I … no. Maybe. I don't know. Talk to Zoe Morgan." She clicked off her phone. "I'm bailing," she called to Zubec. He merely nodded.

She grabbed a key from under the bar and snuck out through the secret tunnels in the basement.

By the time she got back to street level, three blocks up the street from the café, there were three move news vans parked there.


	18. Chapter 18

"Where would they even get that?" Julie demanded, striding across the main room of their hotel suite and then back. "That's never even been hinted at, has it?"

"I've never heard it," Will said. "Of course, I don't hear a lot of things."

"Do you think it's possible?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean …" He took a minute to think about it. "He cheated on my mom. A lot. But for Christine to be his … he would have had to be cheating when I was just a baby. Like the first couple years they were married. I don't … think it started until way after that."

"Will."

"Shit!" He picked up a glass off the table. "I don't know, Julie. I don't think so, but … I don't know." He put the glass down, picked up a pillow, and threw it at the wall. "I don't _know_."

Julie ignored the pillow and went to wrap her arms around him. "It's okay. It's okay."

"No, it's _not_. Damn it, it's not. I don't think Christine is my dad's, I really don't, but I don't know. It's possible. It might be possible. And damn it, I _hate_ it that it might be possible. I _hate_ always having this doubt about … I am _not _going to be like him, Julie. I promise, I am _not._"

"I know that. I know." She kissed him until she felt his body begin to calm. "I know."

Will held her tightly. "I'm so sorry."

"None of this is your fault. C'mon. Let it go. We'll figure it out."

"Christine must be losing her mind."

"Zoe said she was at her new place and all locked in. She'll be okay. Let's just take a minute to breathe and then we'll figure out what we do next."

Will slipped out of her arms and flopped onto the couch. "I don't think so. But I don't know."

"Would Uncle Harold know?" Julie suggested gently.

He held his hand out, and she handed him her phone.

* * *

"No," Harold said. "Absolutely not."

"Are you sure?" Will insisted.

"I'm positive. Your father's … affairs … started much later than that. Much later." Harold did not add, _and if you'd ever set eyes on Christine's mother you'd know there is not enough liquor in Manhattan to make Nathan give her a second glance._

"Have you talked to her?" the young man asked. He sounded overwhelmed. "Should I call her?"

"Call her," Finch said. "I'm sure she'd be glad to hear from you. Whether you're her half-brother or not."

"Too soon, Uncle Harold."

"Sorry." Then, "Do you want me to come to the hotel?"

"Yes. No. Julie's parents are coming in tonight. We're supposed to have cocktails." Will snorted; he twisted the last word to express his disdain for the whole idea. "Like I have time for that."

"It may help to have some face time to smooth things out," Harold reminded him.

"Oh my God. I've got to call Mom."

"Yes," Finch said. "Yes, absolutely. Call her, and then call Christine. And then see what Zoe Morgan has to say. You may need to postpone your cocktails for a few minutes. I'm sure that will break your heart."

"Yeah, right. I'll, uh, I'll call you later. Thanks, Uncle Harold."

Finch put down his phone. He wasn't surprised to find that Bear was right beside his chair. The canine always knew when he was tense.

Christine as Nathan's daughter. It was ridiculous. And Harold was quite certain it was impossible. Absurd. A simple DNA test would put that rumor to rest quickly and definitively.

On the other hand – Christine as Will's half-sister, despite being untrue, was a very useful perception. It took the barriers of suspicion out of their relationship. She could be at Will's side night and day, if need be, and not raise a single eyebrow. Of course the inner circle would know the truth, but beyond that – the rest of the world didn't need to know.

But it would take some finesse to make it work. And it would take some help.

* * *

"It'll be okay," Will said in the elevator.

"You're a lousy liar," Julie shot back.

The elevator opened and they stepped into the lobby outside the penthouse. The door was already open, and Julie's mother Stephanie was waiting for them. "There you are," she said warmly. "Come in, come in."

Will let his fiancée go first, then submitted to Stephanie's brief hug on his way in. Inside, Robert was at the bar, mixing highballs. "There you are," he repeated. He hugged Julie, shook Will's hand and handed him a drink. "Here. Sounds like you need it."

Will handed the first drink to Julie, took the second one the man handed him for himself. They sat down on the couches in the middle of the vast room. There were fancy little snacks on the coffee table between them.

"You've been having a busy week," Stephanie said. "I wish you'd let us call your father's PR people in. They're experts at handling this sort of thing."

"We have an expert," Julie answered.

"Well, she doesn't seem to be very good at her job," her father answered. He took a long swallow of his drink.

"Ms. Morgan's been very helpful," Will countered gently. He took a sip of his own drink. It was strong enough, his own father would have said, to knock a cowboy into a ditch. He set it down on the table.

Julie glanced at him, took a bare sip of her own drink, and set it down as well.

"I think we need to get Jennison involved," Stephanie said. "He seemed very competent with Charles' issues last year."

"We're fine," Julie insisted. "We've got it covered."

Her mother sighed impatiently. "I'll just have him on stand-by, then. Just in case."

"Mother."

She looked at Will. "Now, Will, tell me about your sister. That's very exciting news, isn't it?"

"Christine's not my sister."

"Half-sister, of course …"

"She's not that, either," Julie said. "She's our friend and our tech genius."

"She sounds very interesting. When will we get to meet her?"

Will reached for his drink, then didn't drink it. "She'll probably stop by the hotel tomorrow, if nothing new happens with the press."

"Oh, wonderful. We're so looking forward to it."

Robert grunted. "She really that good?"

"Yes."

"Cause she tells you she's that good?"

Julie bristled.

"She works with my uncle," Will said calmly. "And I trust his opinion more than anyone else on this earth."

"Huh." Robert downed the rest of his drink and stood up to make another for himself.

"Well, I just think it's wonderful," Stephanie said. She crossed her knees and kicked her foot negligently; she was wearing four inch heels.

Will remembered that Julie had said her mother was sensitive about her height, or lack thereof, and was careful never to be seen without her heels on. Apparently that held true even here in the penthouse with only the four of them. He noted her perfectly-manicured nails. By comparison, Julie's were cut short and unpainted.

Julie's nails belonged on hands that actually worked for a living.

The opulence of both the woman and the room felt suddenly smothering. Will reached for his drink again. Robert returned from the bar, his own glass full to the brim, gently sloshing over his hand as he walked, but he didn't seem to notice. Will put his own glass down a second time.

So much money and so much good liquor, and it was all too much like his own home …

Julie put her hand in his, and everything snapped back into focus. He looked at her, grateful. She smiled, understanding and sympathetic and needing his comfort, too.

"We'll be sure to include her in all the family events," Stephanie said firmly. "I'm sure she must feel quite awkward, but really, there's no need to dwell on things that happened so many years ago. She's here now and that's worth celebrating, don't you think? Of course we still have you outnumbered rather badly, but that can't be helped …"

"She's not my sister," Will said again.

"Oh, of course not," the woman agreed. "Believe me, we understand that you have to stick to that story in public, Will. It wouldn't do to give her grounds to go after your inheritance, now would it? But as long as you're on good terms, there's no harm in making her feel as welcome as if she were _actually your family_." She smiled sweetly, conspiratorially. "Have a canapé. They're quite good."

"Finish your drink, son," Robert advised. "I'm two ahead of you already."

_More like three or four_, Will guessed from the man's slurred speech. He picked up the drink and took another tiny sip.

"I'm curious," Julie said, "how you heard about Scotty, anyhow."

"Oh, we saw your interview," her mother answered cheerfully. "I thought you did very well, both of you. All of you. Although I do wish you'd dressed up a little bit. I understand you want this new company of yours to be all hip, but really, a tie and a nice dress never hurt anyone."

"The story about Christine being Nathan's daughter didn't come out until after the interview aired."

The tone in his fiancée's voice – casual, even, calm – was enough to make Will certain he didn't want the rest of his drink. He knew that tone. That was Julie working. He needed to keep his head clear.

Stephanie Carson adjusted her pearl choker. She touched the diamond and pearl stud in her left ear. "I'm sure I heard about that on the news, too."

"You never watch the news. Dad's assistant calls if there's anything he needs to hear about."

She brushed imaginary fuzz off the front of her black cashmere sweater. "Then she must have called. We do try to keep track of you, Julie. Even though we know you don't much care for it."

"The story came from you, didn't it?"

"Don't you speak to your mother that way, young lady," Robert barked.

"Did it?"

Stephanie Carson grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "I don't know how you can accuse me like that."

"That's not a no, Mother," Julie snapped.

"Julie Angela Carson!" her father bellowed.

"You always suspect the worst from me," Stephanie said. She dabbed her eyes again, then stood up. "Really. I don't see what I've done to deserve that from you."

"Well, for starters, you accused Paul Essex of kidnapping me."

"That was years ago! I was trying to do what was best for you! Oh, you are just impossible!"

The woman stomped off – as well as she was able, in high heels on deep carpeting – to one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.

Robert immediately mellowed. "I wish you wouldn't wind her up like that."

"If she hadn't …" Will began.

Julie put her hand on his arm. "We should go," she said tightly. "We should just go."

His instinct was to stay and fight. But Julie knew them far better than he did. And with Mom crying and Dad toasted, there wasn't any point. He stood up. "We'll see you tomorrow, maybe."

"Sure, sure. She'll be over it by then." He shook Will's hand, then went to make himself another drink.

* * *

In the elevator, Julie hit their floor and then the lobby button.

"Where to?" Will asked.

"I'm going to go find some of my siblings and cousins and see who knows what."

"I'll come with you." The elevator slid to a stop.

"No. I want you to call Scotty. Make sure she'd alright. And then see if she can get into my mother's cell phone record."

Will stood in the elevator doorway, holding it open. "I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"I'm pretty sure she won't care, and I'm damn sure I don't."

"You think she can do that?"

"If she can't, call Zoe. She'll know someone who can. But call Scotty first."

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?"

Julie shook her head. "They don't know you well enough to talk in front of you yet. But they'll tell me, if they know."

"It really doesn't matter," Will said. "Wherever the story came from, it's out there now. There's nothing to do about it …"

"It matters," Julie said, "because Scotty thinks maybe Harold leaked it."

"She … what? How do you know that?"

"Because it was the first thing I thought of, too."

"Uncle Harold? Why would he do that?"

"So Scotty can go anywhere with us, with you, and no one will think twice about it. To protect you."

"Isn't that why your mother did it? If she did? To protect you from … my father's reputation?"

She lunged across and kissed him deeply. "It's out there and we can't take it back. But I need to know, and so does Scotty."

With some reluctance, Will stepped into the lobby and let the elevator close.

* * *

PRESS RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE DISTRIBUTION

A SPOKESWOMAN FOR THE FAMILY OF NATHAN INGRAM AND FOR CHRISTINE B. FITZGERALD HAS RESPONDED TO ALLEGATIONS THAT MS. FITZGERALD MAY BE THE ILLIGITMATE DAUGHTER OF THE LATE BILLIONAIRE WITH THE FOLLOWING JOINT COMMENT:

WHILE MISS FITZGERALD HAS BEEN AND REMAINS A CLOSE FRIEND OF THE INGRAM FAMILY, THERE IS NO TRUTH TO THE RUMOR THAT SHE IS IN ANY WAY RELATED TO NATHAN INGRAM. MS. FITZGERALD HAS NEVER PUT FORTH ANY VERSION OF THIS THEORY, AND IN FACT HAD NEVER HEARD IT UNTIL TODAY, WHEN SHE WAS ASKED BY REPORTERS TO COMMENT ON IT. SHE HAS NO INTEREST IN PURSUING THIS MATTER, NOR DOES SHE FEEL THAT SHE HAS ANY CLAIM ON ANY PORTION OF NATHAN INGRAM'S ESTATE. THE PROMOTION OF THIS RUMOR IS A CHEAP AND OBVIOUS PLOY TO CONTINUE TO SELL MEDIA PRODUCT THROUGH THE USE OF THE INGRAM NAME, AND BOTH PARTIES ASK THAT IT STOP IMMEDIATELY.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: CONTACT ZOE MORGAN, ZM

* * *

Fusco had just gotten settled, with his feet up and a bowl of popcorn in his lap and Rhonda snuggled against his side on the couch when his cell phone rang. "Shit," he said. "That better not be work." He glanced at the screen, then answered. "Hey, Sport, what's up?"

"Hey, Dad," Lee said.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I'm goin'. Mom said I could call you first. Did you see the news?"

"No, I'm watching a movie." _Trying to, anyhow._ He tightened his arm around Rhonda's shoulders. "What news?"

"They're talking about Aunt Scotty again."

"Aunt Scotty."

"She said I didn't have to call her Miss Scotty."

"Okay." He liked the way it sounded, actually. Aunt Scotty. Why not? "What'd they say?"

"That she's that rich guy's daughter. That guy that got blown up at the ferry?"

"Nathan Ingram?"

"Yeah. But they're saying it's not true. The family. And Aunt Scotty."

"I'm pretty sure it's not true, then. First I've ever heard about it."

"I just thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah. That's interesting. Get to bed now, Sport. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Night, Dad. Love you."

"Love you too, Lee."

He put his phone down.

"Aunt Scotty?" Rhonda asked, amused.

"He could do worse." He hesitated. "Hang on a minute, okay?"

"Sure. You want me to go powder my nose?"

"No, just stay put. Unless you need to or whatever."

He dialed her number. The call went straight to voice mail. "Hey, it's me, Fusco. I just heard you're in the news again. I'm guessin' your other … friends … got this, but if you need anything, give me a call, okay? Day or night. Okay. Bye." He ended the call.

Rhonda ate some popcorn. "You ever gonna tell me how you met her?"

Fusco thought about it.

"You don't have to," she added quickly. "I mean, I'm curious, but it's really none of my business."

"It's not that," Lionel said. "It's not, you know, anything you can't know. Not anything I want to keep secret from you or anything. It's just … did you ever do something that … you didn't have any choice, you couldn't do anything different, but you always wished you could go back and do it over?"

"Yeah." Rhonda nodded. "Yeah, I have."

"It's like that. I, um, she was fourteen, and I … shot her father dead right in front of her. I mean, he had a gun, he had hostages, there wasn't anything else I could do, but …"

"Oh, Lionel." Her voice was so full of compassion and understanding that Fusco felt his eyes get wet. She didn't see it, fortunately, because she put her arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug. "Oh, you poor thing."

"No, it's her, really …" he protested weakly.

"She'd not here. You are. And it sucks for both of you."

She kept stroking his hair and kissing his temples, and Fusco blinked back his tears and let her comfort him.


	19. Chapter 19

Reese let himself into the new apartment.

The Cars, early 80's era, were playing on the speakers that were hidden throughout the whole apartment, but the volume was low. There were little lights on in the hallway and the living room, but Christine was in her office, which was lit only by the glow of her monitors.

She sat at a keyboard, but her hands were folded in her lap.

He leaned on the doorframe, folded his arms. "You didn't tell me you had another brother."

Christine smirked without looking at him. "I didn't know."

"I think I'm jealous. Wanna go shoot something?"

She did turn then. "You serious?"

"I never joke about firearms."

"Yes, you do."

He grinned. "Get your shoes."

She saved what she was working on – it looked like it might be a website – and shut off the music. In two minutes she was ready to leave.

While she got ready, John went to his hidden arsenal and selected a weapon for her. His had his Sig, as usual, and there was another in the drawer, but it was heavy for someone with limited experience to handle. Instead, he got her the .32 that he would have used as a back-up, and supressors for both weapons. He traded his sport coat for a wool pea coat, and they went out.

Christine didn't ask where they were going, and she didn't offer any conversation on the way. John let the quiet endure. There was a time for talk, and there was a time to shoot things.

Her phone chirped. She checked the caller, then clicked it off and dropped it into the glove compartment.

The gate to the landfill was closed, but the night watchman was waiting for them. He opened the gate remotely, then came out and leaned toward John's window. "Freshest loads are off there to the left," he said, pointing down the road. It was dark that way, only the distant lights of the city giving any illumination. "I turned off the lights like you asked."

"Appreciate it," Reese said. He slipped the man a stack of folded money. "We'll be an hour or so."

"Just honk when you're ready to leave. I'm here all night."

Reese rolled up his window and drove through the gate. It closed behind them. He turned toward the left, then turned off the headlights and drove slowly in the sudden gloom.

"I kinda thought we were going to the range," Christine said.

"We can if you want to," Reese answered. "But this will be more fun."

He stopped the car and got out. Christine did the same. He gave her the .32 and showed her how to thread the silencer on. He watched her handling closely, but it was more from habit than from concern. They're had half a dozen lessons at the shooting range, and she remembered and followed every safety edict he gave her.

Being careful with a gun was not, of course, the same as being proficient with one. As a shooter, Christine was an advanced beginner at best. She was still working at hitting the target at all, and not nearly ready to start choosing _where_ she hit it. Reese had taught far more gifted marksmen. But he'd taught some who were much worse, too.

"I believe you issued some edict about never shooting what you couldn't see," Christine said quietly.

Reese sniffed. The gate guy was obviously right; this was the section where the loads of refuse had most recently been dumped. It reeked. That was precisely what he wanted. He listened carefully. Over the gentle breeze, the distant slap of water on the banks of the river – _there._ He heard it. More than one. Dead ahead.

He led the woman to stand directly in front of the car, facing the trash heap. He stood next to her, then moved her over just a little so that they were both between the headlights. He drew his weapon. "Ready?"

"For what?"

He nodded towards the trash. "Aim there," he directed.

She didn't question him. She raised her weapon slowly. "What am I …"

Reese clicked the remote and the headlights of the car flared on. In front of them, across the piles of trash, he saw six, no, seven big rats glaring at them.

"Fire," he said.

She didn't hesitate. She picked one, steadied her aim, and fired.

The rat squealed and jumped, injured. It tried to run. Reese finished it off with a shot of his own. Then he turned his weapon on a second one and killed it cleanly. The others had fled by then, but one stopped at the top of the heap to look at them and Christine fired again. The trash jumped six inches from the rat, and it fled, unharmed.

"Not bad," Reese said.

"I didn't kill any."

"No, but you hit one. Your first live targets, and they're fairly small for this range. You'll get better."

"They all ran away," she pointed out.

Reese nodded. "Fix on where the carcasses are," he said. Then he shut the headlights off.

They wanted in silence. John could tell by the way she flinched that Christine could hear the rats returning this time. "They come to eat the dead," she murmured.

"Fresh meat," he agreed. "Ready?"

In the half-light he saw her barrel come up. She took a deep breath, then exhaled, as he'd taught her. "Ready."

He clicked the lights on. There were ten or twelve rats this time, all of them eating at the corpses of the rats they'd shot before. He took the pile on the right and got three quickly. He heard Christine's weapon fire four times. When he swung to her pile, there was one dead and a second badly wounded. He was about to put it down when she fired again and killed it.

Reese grinned to himself. He'd trained soldiers who were perfect on the range and terrible against a live target. And he'd trained about one in a hundred who was never good on the range, but could drop a live target every time. He might have guessed that Christine was the second time: she focused far better under pressure.

And she did not flinch at killing a living thing, particularly one that she knew would eat her flesh if it got the chance.

Of course, good at shooting rats didn't equal good at shooting people. He guessed she would always have a problem with that, and he didn't want to train that out of her, even if he could. But Christine would know when the right time to kill a human was. It would be when there was no other choice. Knowing that she could kill a moving rat would help give her the confidence she would need if it ever came to that.

Reese devoutly hoped that it wouldn't. But since Finch absolutely refused to learn how to handle a firearm, it might someday fall to her to protect him.

Reese hated that possibility. But he liked being prepared for it.

He shut the lights off.

They went through five more rounds. Each time there were more rats scrambling over their dead comrades, and each time Christine's shots were a little more accurate. Then, on the last round, she got markedly worse.

"That's enough," John said, killing the rat she'd only wounded. "Your arms are tired."

"More push-ups?" she asked.

"Couldn't hurt." He liked the change in her voice. She'd unwound a lot since they'd started. "Feel better?"

"Yeah. But this may have to be a nightly event."

"Fine by me."

She leaned her backside on the hood of the car, and slid across until her shoulder rested against his. "This thing turned into a major clusterfuck in a hell of a hurry."

Reese shrugged. "No one's dead. It's not that bad."

"You do have a way of putting things in perspective."

"If everyone thinks you're Will's half-sister, they'll stop speculating about whether you're sleeping with him."

"I know. That's what pisses me off the most. It's the perfect solution."

"So you think it's Finch's solution."

"I don't know. Do you?"

"It's possible."

She sighed.

"Julie thinks her mother may have put it out there," he continued. "Or for all I know, Zoe Morgan leaked it."

"Or you."

"Or me. Or you."

Christine shook her head. "I would have said I was Nathan's mistress, not his daughter."

"True. Which would not have been at all helpful." Reese unscrewed his suppressor, held his hand out for hers. "Whoever put the rumor out there, the bottom line is that it helps all of you. Protects you. Get through these next few days and you're home free."

"We already said it wasn't true."

"And you'll go right on saying that," he said. "They won't believe you, and that's fine. You and Will are good friends. It doesn't hurt either of you to have them think you're related. And Nathan's dead, so it doesn't hurt him any either."

"What about Will's mother?"

Reese hesitated. "I don't know her. Olivia. I suppose this won't be easy for her. But honestly, there are so many stories about Ingram out there, I don't know if one more will make any difference."

"I should talk to her. Won't that be a jolly conversation."

"You might leave out the part about wishing you'd been her husband's mistress."

"You think?"

"Just to be on the safe side."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I am so tired, John."

"I know." He brought his hand up to cradle her head for a moment. "Let's get you home. Hot shower, warm bed, no phone calls, no computers tonight." She started to speak. "No. Whatever you need to do, it will wait until tomorrow. Home, shower, bed. End of story."

"Okay."

"Good girl." He released her and they both got in car. He'd already tucked his weapon under his arm; he tucked hers into his ankle holster. They both smelled like cordite. For an instant it reminded him of being in a vehicle with Kara Stanton. But it passed when he shook his head. Christine was not darkness, not for him. But because she carried her own darkness, she could walk right beside him.

The bastard children of despair, she'd said. But honestly, even as aggravating as the current situation was, there was a great deal of joy in their lives.

He started the car and turned on the headlights. The piles of rats writhed in feeding frenzy. They ignored the lights.

There was a metaphor in there somewhere, Reese was sure, but he didn't bother to tease it out. He stepped on the gas and turned the wheel sharply, spraying the survivors with gravel on his way back to the gate.

* * *

_New York This Morning_ ran a six-minute follow up piece the next morning. Shortly thereafter, Zoe Morgan arrived at the door of Christine's new apartment, bearing a very small, elegantly wrapped package from the Coronet's gift shop.

"It's from Will," she said. She followed the woman into her kitchen and gladly accepted a cup of coffee.

"This had better not be jewelry," Christine grumbled. She unwrapped the little gift and grinned at the pack of Nicorette it revealed. It had a post-it note stuck to it: _Not the idea solution, but better for you than smoking. Hang in there. WI. _She pocketed the nicotine gum. "So what's the sitch?"

"Will's guilt-stricken and wouldn't blame you at all if you wanted to walk away from the whole partnership," Zoe reported. "Julie's mortified and furious at her mother. It was her mother, wasn't it?"

"She called Maxine Angelis and TMZ both yesterday. So yeah, I'm gonna say it was her."

Zoe shook her head. "I should have expected that. She's always got her fingers in things."

"How's Harold?"

"Quiet. He's hoping for the best, I think, but like Will, he wouldn't blame you for backing out."

"What's your opinion?"

Zoe was a little startled. She and Scotty Fitzgerald weren't adversaries, exactly – even the Reese question had been decided without words – but she didn't think the hacker considered her a friend, either. She still didn't, she realized, but Christine did consider her a reliable expert in her field. It was nice to be acknowledged that way. "I know it sucks," she said. "I'm guessing you'd rather be skinned alive and dipped in lemon juice than face another mob of reporters."

"Pretty much."

"On the other hand, I don't see how this gets any worse from here. As long as you don't do something stupid like get caught skinny-dipping with Will. I'm not saying you can't do it, just don't get photographed." She sipped her coffee. It was hot and strong, just the way she liked it. Something else they had in common. "Get through this weekend and you should be home free."

"That's what John said, too."

Zoe nodded. "So you can play this one of two ways. Stay underground and let the questions linger, or get out there and let them get it off their chests."

"If I do that, will they go away?"

"Not all of them. Not right away. But the more credible ones will be satisfied, and no one will care if you have the bottom-dwellers bounced on their asses."

Christine brought out the pack of gum, cracked it open, and took out a piece. She considered, then popped it into her mouth. "Okay. Let's do this."

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, John Reese was waiting beside a town car.

* * *

"What's she like?" Harold had asked years before, when it became obvious that Nathan had yet another girl on his mind.

"She's pretty," Nathan had answered. That was always the first part of his answer. "And headstrong."

"Meaning she's too smart to jump in bed with you on the first date?"

"How did you get to be so cynical, Harold?"

"What's her name?"

"Olivia."

Olivia was, Harold learned when he met her some weeks later, was indeed pretty and also, indeed, headstrong. Actually, he would have more precisely described her as _formidable_. That was not a word generally associated with young women, but it was accurate. Olivia was smart and well-mannered, socially adept and pleasant. And once she made up her mind to something, she generally got what she wanted.

The first time Harold saw the two of them together, he'd known that Olivia had made up her mind that Nathan was going to marry her, and that he was going to be successful. It took his friend another year to get with the program, but Harold never had any doubt.

Olivia had recognized immediately that Harold knew exactly what she was. She had tried, briefly, to carve him out of Nathan's life. She did not succeed. Then he'd made Nathan – and by extension, Olivia – wealthy. After the first million, she'd stopped trying to push him out. They had never liked each other, but they were unfailingly polite to each other.

She had gone out of her way to make sure that he was a part of Will's life.

So when he called her, though their conversation was terse and bare of all but the most basic pleasantries, he had no doubt she would help. But he did not expect her to come through quite as spectacularly as she did.

* * *

The three of them – Will, Julie, and Christine – held their first, and hopefully last, open press conference in the large conference room at the Coronet hotel.

All of them wore blue jeans.

In addition to the reporters, there were a numbers of members of the Carson family in the crowd. Robert and Stephanie were not there only because their daughter had threatened to leave the hotel and never return if they came down from the penthouse. Zoe devoutly approved of that move; the presence of the senior Carsons would have turned the press event into a circus.

As it was, it was fairly straightforward.

Was Christine Nathan's daughter? (No.)

Was she Will's sister? (No.)

Was she Will's half-sister? (No.)

Was there any indication that they were related? (No.)

Had this relationship ever been rumored before? (No.)

Was there anything to indicate that it might be true? (No.)

They asked fifteen different variations on the same question, until Christine finally said, "Look, no matter how many ways you rephrase that question, the answer is always going to be no."

The reporters shifted their ground slightly.

Would Will and Christine submit to a DNA test? (No, because there was no point in proving a negative that they were already certain about.)

Did Christine have any standing to claim a portion of the Ingram fortune? (No; see all of the preceding questions.)

If Christine were Nathan's child, would Will voluntarily share his inheritance with her?

Will said, "Yes."

Christine said, "No."

"Why no?" they asked.

"One, it's a moot point," she answered. "And two, I wouldn't want it. I have enough money."

This caused a discernible pause. "What do you mean," Maxine Angelis finally asked, "_enough _money?"

"I have enough money to buy anything I need, and to do anything I want."

"But … it could be billions of dollars."

Christine shook her head. "It would go back into the Initiative, regardless. There's no point in discussing it."

They rephrased that question a dozen different ways as well. The answer never changed.

The money aspect fascinated them. They couldn't accept that Christine wasn't somehow angling to get some of it. Even after Julie reminded that that Christine had not been the one to start this utterly unfounded rumor, they kept asking.

Finally Zoe Morgan stepped in. "The question has been asked and answered, repeatedly. Is there anything else you're interested in, or are we done here?"

They muttered for a moment.

"Ms. Fitzgerald, will you be staying here at the Coronet for the weekend?" Michael Murphy finally asked.

"No," she answered. "I'll be in and out some, but I won't be staying."

"Why are you attending at all, if you're not a relative?"

"Moral support," Will replied immediately. "I'm outnumbered. I need all the help I can get."

The reporters chuckled politely.

"Ms. Carson, how are your parents responding to these questions?"

Julie sidestepped. "There are so many people coming to this birthday party that a few more don't really matter."

"Can I stay, then?" a young blogger in the front row asked.

"Did you bring a present?" Zoe shot back playfully.

"What about Mrs. Ingram?" a woman called from the back.

"She's not Mrs. Ingram quite yet," Will returned.

"Your mother. How does she feel about this question of Christine's parentage?"

Will stared at him levelly. "How do you think she feels?"

"Have you talked to her about it?" someone else asked.

"Yes."

"And what did she say?"

"Since we've established that Christine is not Nathan Ingram's child," Zoe said firmly, "she really didn't have a lot to comment on."

"Will she be here this weekend?"

"She's coming in for part of the weekend, yes."

"Will she meet with us?"

"Probably not."

The questions went on for a while. They were increasingly unspecific and trivial, finally reaching into the number of Carsons expected to attend Robert's birthday party (too many to count) to the flavor of the cake (chocolate) to possible dates for Will and Julie's wedding (to be determined).

Zoe nodded. The endless thirst of the press had, for the moment, been slaked. "Three more questions," she announced.

The last three were about favored wedding dress designers (not considered yet), possible wedding locations (also not considered) and finally, when CI-REI was expected to be fully functional (six to nine months).

Then Zoe thanked the reporters and hurried her trio out of the room.

The Skydd men took there from there directly to the elevators and up to their suite. Zoe stayed, answering stray questions as the gathering broke up. She wanted to get the tone of their off-record discussions.

Most of what she heard was satisfactory. The credible press was satisfied, and a little embarrassed that they'd sunk to celebrity-chasing. The tabloids, of course, were trying to come up with new angles and scandals right in front of her. She quashed a couple of them – no, she didn't have any idea if Julie Carson was pregnant, nor if the young couple planned to have children at all – but the rest would have to run their course. _The Enquirer_ wasn't going to stop publishing blaring headlines just because the story wasn't true.

After a time, the security people moved the remaining reporters out of the conference room. Many left; some remained on the front walk, hoping for further developments, or at least for pictures of arriving Carson family members.

_Wait and see_, Zoe told herself. _Wait and listen and prepare and watch for the opening to nail this thing down._

In the meantime, though, she had every opportunity to stick around the Coronet for the whole weekend and rub elbows with roughly a third of the power players in the city.

So, it wasn't a total loss.


	20. Chapter 20

Olivia Ingram arrived at high noon in a Bentley limousine.

Finch was standing in the lobby of the Coronet, near the concierge's desk, watching on one of the security monitors. He smiled tightly. The Bentley was one most ostentatious of all possible displays of wealth, and of course Olivia had chosen it deliberately. She'd also likely hand-picked the lovely young chauffeur, who wore the customary white shirt, black jacket and cap – but also a short, tight black skirt that displayed her shapely legs.

Olivia herself was wearing a conservative, well-tailored suit, probably Prada.

She absolutely knew how to make an entrance.

As she glided through the crowd behind one of the security guards, Harold pulled out his phone and called Will. "Your mother's here."

"Oh, shit."

"You need to come down to the lobby. Bring the ladies with you."

Will's breath hitched. "Both of them?"

"Yes, both of them."

"Uncle Harold…"

"Trust me. Hurry." He hung up on his further protests and moved close to the front door to listen and watch.

Olivia paused on the sidewalk next to the limo, not quite posing for photos, and seemed mildly surprised but not at all put-out when the clump of reporters swarmed around her. She smiled benignly in the face of their shouted questions.

"Did you know about the engagement?"

"Have you met your son's fiancée?"

"How do you feel about the engagement?"

"Will your son have a pre-nup?"

"When do you expect the wedding to be?"

"Have you met the Carson family before?"

Olivia waved her hand gently and the throng grew quieter. She leaned decorously toward the microphones held out to her. "I am delighted that Will and Julie are getting married. I know Julie quite well and I absolutely adore her. I don't know if they've set a date yet, but I already consider Julie to be a part of our family. I have not met the rest of the Carson family, and I'm very much looking forward to getting to know them this weekend. I'm pleased to have been invited to join in their family celebration."

She'd said family three times in as many sentences, leaving the gathering a clear opening. Of course they pounced.

"Is Christine Fitzgerald your husband's illegitimate child?"

"Is Fitzgerald your son's half-sister?"

She smiled again, graciously. "Christine is a lovely, lovely woman and a dear friend of Will and Julie's. I am very happy, and honestly greatly relieved, that she's going to be a part of their new organization. My son unfortunately did not inherit any of his father's technological skills, so they definitely need someone with her talents. The three of them work wonderfully together, and I'm sure they're going to accomplish great things."

"But is she Nathan's daughter?"

Unperturbed, Olivia shook her head. "No. She is not Nathan's daughter."

"Are you sure? Will you ask for DNA tests?"

She ignored the questions. "But if Will wants to think of her as a sister, I'm all for it. Lord knows our little family is outnumbered here – I'll take all the additions I can get."

Will, Julie and Christine got off the elevator. Finch gestured to them quickly. "Go," he said, pointing towards the door. "Go, go."

Will hesitated. "Are you sure? She's …"

"She's up to speed. Go."

He went, and Julie followed. Christine hung back just a little, staring at Harold. "It's okay," he promised. "Trust me."

She left him with a baleful look, but she followed the others out the door. By that time Olivia had embraced Will and then Julie. She turned to Christine with a wide smile and outstretched arms. "So nice to see you again!"

Christine hadn't been told what to expect – because Harold hadn't been sure what to expect – but she was quick, as always. She smiled back and moved easily into the older woman's embrace, as if they were old friends.

That was the shot the reporters had been waiting for, of course. The cameras clicked loud enough to be heard over the renewed clamor of questions. The crowd surged, but there enough guards to keep them back. Olivia held the embrace long enough to make sure everyone got their pictures. Then she turned toward the door, her arm still around Christine's waist. She drew Julie to her other side. "So, what's the plan?" she asked clearly. "Can we girls sneak out for a lunch and a little shopping before the formal festivities start?"

They all moved back into the relative quiet and security of the lobby.

Julie steered the group to where Harold waited on the side. From there they could not be seen from the street. Olivia checked for other cameras, then relaxed. "Hello, Harold."

"Olivia. Thank you for coming."

She turned to Christine. "So you're the young lady they're all fussing about. It's nice to meet you. I'm Olivia."

"Christine. Or Scotty. Whichever you prefer." They shook hands, a bit awkwardly since they'd already hugged. "That was … inspired."

"That is quite a crowd," Olivia said. "But they're manageable." She studied the young woman's face, then shook her head. "No, you're not Nathan's." She glanced at Harold. "I'll admit, I had a moment when I thought you might be."

"No. Sorry. Or … not sorry."

"Even if you were, dear, it would hardly be your fault. So tell me, are you sleeping with my son?"

"Mother!" Will spluttered.

"No," Christine calmly.

"Do you plan to?"

"No."

"Good." Olivia put her arm around her again. "Then we have no grounds for conflict, and ample grounds for forming an alliance."

"My mother," Julie said, "all but admitted that she was the one who put the story out there. And her phone records prove it. I am so sorry."

"If it was her, that's not your fault,' Olivia said reasonably, "and you have nothing to be sorry for."

Harold looked around quickly. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation upstairs."

"Yes," Olivia agreed.

They moved toward the elevators. That put them in camera range again, briefly, and Harold was careful to hang back from the little group until they'd crossed out of view. Olivia glanced over her shoulder at him. She knew exactly what he was doing and why, and for a moment the old impatience was there in her eyes. _Harold and his secrets_, he could almost hear her think. Then she smiled, small and indulgent.

Now that Nathan was dead, he supposed she could afford to be indulgent.

* * *

In the suite, the first thing Olivia did was hold her son's arm for support while she took off her shoes. "God Almighty, those things are uncomfortable!"

Christine kicked her shoes off next to Olivia's "Coffee?" she offered.

"You're an angel. Black, please."

"It's not as good as hers," Will said. "We've got to get your down to Chaos."

Olivia nodded agreeably. "I look forward to seeing it. And this new office space you've picked out."

"We're going to put an apartment on the second floor," Julie added. She flopped onto the couch. "And I am never telling my mother where I live."

"I should take them to dinner," Olivia observed. She sat in the side chair, put her coffee on the table. "Harold, can you recommend somewhere painfully expensive?"

"Of course. I'll make a reservation if you like. For five?"

"Six. We're taking Christine with us everywhere we go. If that's alright with you, dear?" This last she directed at the younger woman.

"Sure," she agreed. "But I'm gonna need another dress, I think."

"Me, too," Julie answered. "Let's just go casual. Bubba Gump's on Time Square. Get those disposable bibs and a big bucket of things we have to tear apart to eat. Mom would love that."

"I'll come up with something," Harold promised mildly.

"Of course you can come with us if you like," Olivia said.

"Please," Christine added.

He looked at her. She kept it off her face, mostly, but in her eyes was not so much _please help me_ _as you got me into this, you don't get to bail_. He nodded. "Of course."

"I'll call up to their room. In a minute."

Julie shook her head. "I am so sorry. About all of this."

"Don't fuss, sweetheart," Olivia said. "We're all here, we're together, we'll be fine. It'll be fun."

"I don't think it's going to be fun when all I can think about is how much I want to strangle her."

"You can't strangle her, of course. You have to play the Polite Game. I learned it from my own mother-in-law."

"The Polite Game?" Will asked uneasily.

"Oh, yes." Olivia nodded to herself. "You see, there are really only three things that society women of wealth fear. Poverty, scandal, and time. Now we can't do poverty, of course. The empire is too wide-spread. And scandal is tricky. It has a way of bouncing back. But time? We can do time."

"You have a time machine?" Christine asked.

"Sadly, no. But I'm a devout fan of someone who does."

"Your mom's a Whovian?" she asked Will. "You never told me that."

"It never came up."

Christine hit him with a throw pillow. "This is critical information, William. It changes my entire perception."

"What did you learn from the Doctor," Julie asked wearily, "that's any help with my mother?"

"I learned how to topple a government with six little words."

Harold felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. It was wicked. Evil. There was no defense against it.

It was perfect.

Christine got it at the same time. She stood up and bowed deeply from the waist to Olivia. "I am not worthy."

"I don't get it," Will said.

"Six words," his mother repeated, "that can topple a government, or knock the pins out of a rich woman's ego. _Don't you think she looks tired_."

Will blinked. "Ooooooh."

Julie said, "Holy shit." Then she went and hugged her. "At this moment you are my favorite person in the whole world."

Olivia smiled, genuinely happy. "I'm starving. Let's go get lunch and make the press happy." She stood up. "Harold, can I bother you to make Will a sandwich or something? This is a ladies-only event."

"I'm sure we can come up with something," Harold assured her.

For his part, Will looked relieved to have been dis-invited.

* * *

Reese sat at the end of the bar and watched the crowd. He had a beer, but he'd been nursing it for nearly an hour. The bartender had been told he was with the security detail and except for the dropping off a fresh bowl of pretzels, he ignored him.

Carson family groups had been swarming into the hotel all afternoon. By Friday evening, Finch had said, they expected to be completely full through until Sunday.

John spotted Ingram in the mirror behind the bar as soon as the young man came to the doorway. The doctor looked around, then walked over. "Mind if I join you?"

"It's your party."

Ingram snorted. "Yeah, right." He sat down and ordered a Coke from the bartender.

"Everything okay?"

The young man held his glass in both hands and stared at the ice cubes. "Yeah, fine. I'm, um …" He looked John squarely in the eyes for a moment, then looked back at his drink. "My uncle," he finally said, "thinks I'm an idiot. Lovable, but an idiot."

"I don't think he thinks that," Reese countered easily.

"Oh, he's not wrong," Will went on. "I do seriously dumb shit sometimes. My dad, he could walk into a crowded room and size everybody there up in a glance, you know? He knew people. What they wanted, how bad they wanted it, what they'd do to get it. How they'd act in any situation. I don't know if that's genetic or what, but I don't have it. I never did."

Reese wondered if Will knew he'd just described the classic skillset of an abused child, and one that Nathan had in common with Christine. He sipped his beer and waited.

"But one thing I _am_ good at," Ingram paused to sip his Coke, "is listening to one person at a time. Really listening. Not just what they're saying, but how they're saying it. I can talk to a woman over a crappy radio and know from a hundred miles away if she's having a normal labor or if she's in trouble. That thing, that one little thing, I'm good at that. With … voices."

John looked over at him.

"I know your voice. I know you were in that building the night Julie went out the window. I know you helped us."

Reese took another sip.

Ingram looked at him squarely again. "I don't know why you were there. Or who you are, really. But I wanted to say thank you."

"So you're not here looking for answers?"

"Oh, I'm totally here looking for answers. But I'm not sure you're going to give me any, so I thought I'd start with that. Julie would have died if you hadn't been there. So – thank you."

"You're welcome."

They sat quietly for a moment. Ingram took a pretzel and chewed it thoughtfully. "I kinda hoped you'd take that as an invitation to share," he finally said.

Reese chewed a pretzel of his own. "You won't like it."

"I'm about to acquire more than a hundred in-laws, and so far I don't like any of them. One more thing I don't like isn't an issue at this point."

"I'd elope."

"We are very seriously considering that."

They snacked a little more in silence. Reese expected the young man to push, but he stayed quiet. He nodded his approval. "I handle some security matters for your uncle. Investigations."

"Right. You said that."

"After you were kidnapped, the first time, he asked check up on your security detail."

"On Skydd? They're supposed to be the best in the world."

"Supposed to be."

The younger man's shoulders came up a little. "That team … they died trying to protect me."

"_Trying_ to," Reese agreed.

Ingram wanted to argue. He could see it in his posture. But he didn't. He sipped his Coke, then nodded to himself. "So you were checking up on Skydd checking up on me for Uncle Harold."

"Yes."

"How'd you end up at the construction site?"

"I followed the guys who were following you, for a while. And I noticed that Miss Essex was following you as well."

Will nodded.

"In the course of trying to find out why she was following you, we realized that _she_ was actually the one in danger."

"We. You and Uncle Harold?"

Reese was careful not to sigh out loud. He hadn't meant to say 'we'. Something about Will Ingram's unabashed openness made him inclined to drop his own guard. "I reported to Harold," he clarified.

"You told Uncle Harold that Julie was in danger, and then what?"

"He asked me to look after her."

"Why?"

"She was important to you. She was trying to protect you." John shrugged. "He wasn't about to just throw her to the wolves. But by the time we got it all sorted out, you'd already been taken again."

The young man flinched. "Yeah." He was appropriately embarrassed about that. "So you came after her."

"Yes."

"I'm glad you did. God knows I wasn't any help. But … why didn't you just tell me that? Why didn't Uncle Harold?"

Reese sipped his beer. "You have a history of being a bit prickly about your protection details."

"I think we can safely say those days are over." Ingram glanced over his shoulder. There were two men in dark suits at the door to the bar, being completely conspicuous. "So is that why you're here now? To check out the security teams?"

"Partly," John allowed. "And partly, I was told there was an open bar."

Ingram smiled tightly. "Help yourself." He glanced back again. "_Are_ they good? Or just plentiful?"

"The ones you see are plentiful. The ones you don't see are good."

"So we're safe here?" Ingram pressed. "Julie's safe? And the others?"

"Safe from outside threats, as far as I can tell. If they decide to start killing each other within the family, there's not much I can do about it."

"I think that's on the schedule for tomorrow," Will said ruefully. "I wonder if we can duck out early."

"I have the codes for the emergency exits," Reese told him.

"I may take you up on that."

"Just say the word."

The bar was suddenly overwhelmed by a crowd of young Carson men. Reese didn't bother trying to sort them out. There were five of them, all under about thirty, all loud and at least a little inebriated.

"There he is!" the first exclaimed happily. "Will, we found you!"

"I see that," Ingram said with forced cheerfulness.

"We're going to get a game together," a second Carson said. "Up in the suite. You comin'?"

"Uhhhh … I need to see what … "

"The girls went shopping. Come on." He wheeled to the bar. "Bartender! We need some whiskey to take upstairs."

Under normal circumstances, Reese knew the bartender would have at least made them sign a tab. But nothing was normal at the Coronet this weekend. He simply handed over the bottles they pointed to. Later, he knew, the man would add it to the never-ending tab.

"Come on!" the first man said again.

Ingram had a weakness for poker; it had gotten him in trouble more than once. But he didn't seem tempted this time. "I can't right now. We're, uh, we're having a conversation."

One of the ones who hadn't spoken slapped his hand on Reese's back. "You play poker, friend? Come on up. We've got room."

"Not right now," Reese said firmly.

"I'll stop by later," Ingram said.

"All right, but don't make us come looking for you."

The crowd of near-clones took their whiskey and crowded out.

"Thanks," Will said.

"Watch the crease on the tall one," Reese answered.

"The what?"

John pointed to the small crease between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. "When he's bluffing, the crease stays the same. But when he gets excited it tightens up."

"That's … good to know." Ingram seemed genuinely impressed. "I suppose I have tells, too."

"Too many to list. If you were smart, you'd stick to gin rummy."

Ingram laughed, but he knew he wasn't kidding. "Yeah. I'll stay out of it if I can."

Which meant, of course, that he couldn't. Social obligations wouldn't allow it. Reese didn't really care. The young man could spare the money, and he wasn't likely to get knifed in a room full of Carsons. Punched, maybe, after some of that whiskey had gone in, but not knifed. It was about the least of the trouble he could get into.

"Scotty," the young man said, rather out of nowhere. "Is she going to be okay with all of this?"

"With your gambling?"

"With the bullshit about my dad. The press and all."

Reese considered. "She doesn't like the attention."

"I know."

"She'll be okay."

"You sure?"

"What makes you think I'm the expert?"

A little smile quirked around Ingram's mouth. "I hear she lets you sleep over."

"She lets Teeny Bellatore sleep over, too."

"That's true." And then, "What's that story, anyhow?"

John shrugged. "Pretty much as she told it, as far as I know."

They both chewed on pretzels for a minute. Reese appreciated that the young doctor, who was normally talkative, seemed to know when to shut up. "She's stressed," he said. "Christine. The move was hard for her. For reasons that she may or may not tell you on her own. She didn't need to be on the front page, too."

Will nodded his understanding. "How do I help her?"

Reese nodded himself. He liked the questions Ingram asked. Beyond brash and headstrong and inexperienced, the young man seemed to have a truly good heart. "The same way you'd help your uncle."

"Leave her alone for six months and hope she calls me when she feels better?"

"Exactly."

"Really?"

John considered. "Well, maybe not quite that long."

"Could be a problem, with the new office and all." Ingram picked up a pretzel and put it down again. "Is she okay with _that_, or did she just go along with it because Uncle Harold asked her to?"

"You'd have to ask Christine."

Ingram sighed. "Do you have a guess?"

Another of the endless Carson men slapped Will abruptly on the back. "There you are. You coming up to the game?"

"Uhhh … in a minute."

"Cool." He turned to the bartender. "Gimme a bottle. That one."

"Please," Reese prompted.

"Please," the young man amended automatically.

The bartender handed another bottle over. The man left.

Ingram slumped.

Reese smiled mildlyy. "Harold tells me you always hated being an only child."

"I regret every single time I ever complained about that," Will vowed. "Julie tried to warn me and I just didn't get it."

"Well, they've had a head start on the drinking. That will help your game a little."

"Scotty," he said, redirecting the conversation.

John took a long drink. "I don't know if Harold asked, or if she just knew he'd want her to say yes. Either way – she's ready to move on to bigger things, and they both know it. This project of yours might be just the right thing at the right time."

"And Harold made sure it ended up in front of her."

"Well … yes."

"Like he always does."

Reese shrugged. "Harold's plans don't always succeed."

"Tell me one that hasn't."

"He didn't want me sleeping in the guest room."

"He … oh." Will seemed genuinely startled for an instant. "Oh," he said again. And then, "Should I ask?"

"No."

"Okay." The younger man thought about it. "I'll talk to her. Make sure she knows she has an out, if she wants it."

"Good."

Ingram drained his soda and glanced over at him. "I should get up there."

"Yep."

"I'll stake you if you'll come with me."

Reese looked at him for a long moment. Will Ingram was so damn earnest, and so unabashedly open. Despite the places he'd been and the things he'd seen – some of the worst war-torn and poverty-stricken places on the planet – he maintained his bright optimism. _I was the dark_, John thought_. I helped create a lot of the misery he tried to heal. But he doesn't have any idea. And if he did – he'd say I was different now_.

There was something irresistible about the young man's light.

Besides, Will needed the help.

Reese put down his beer and picked up the bowl of pretzels. "I could use the workout. Why not?"


	21. Chapter 21

It started at dinner, and it was beautifully subtle. Olivia said, "I'm sorry, would you mind moving us to that table over there? There's a little draft here and we don't want Mrs. Carson to get chilled right before the big party."

Later, amid light conversation, Harold asked, "Do you not care for the wine, Julie? I can order something else?"

She shook her head. "It's fine. I'm just not in the mood for wine, I guess."

"Well, give me that glass, then," her father said. He reached across the table and took it.

"She'd never had very good taste in wine," Stephanie complained. "We've tried, but you know, some people just don't have the pallet."

Olivia said, "Oh, Stephanie, is that steak too rare for you? It looks like it might be a bit rare." She waved down the waiter before the woman could protest. "Could you just take this back and cook it two minutes longer? It's a bit tough for Mrs. Carson, thank you."

Later still, Will and Robert got into a remarkably productive conversation about which of the many Carson companies might be helpful to CI-REI. Stephanie dropped her dessert fork loudly. "This is nonsense. We need to be planning this wedding, not talking about this pie-in-the-sky nonsense."

"Clean renewable energy is most likely the growth industry of the near future," Harold said quietly.

"Exactly," Carson agreed. "Heard that from all our smart investors, when are we going to get into renewables. This is a great chance for us."

"I wonder if we should look at St. John the Divine," Stephanie said. "I understand they have reception facilities available right there. Of course that's not really necessary, there are plenty of reception sites."

"We're not getting married in a cathedral," Julie said firmly.

"And of course we'll need to go to Kleinfeld's for the gown. That's where your sisters got theirs. The service is wonderful, but they do need plenty of lead time."

"Mother. We're not doing the great white wedding."

Robert down his daughter's wine. "What do you hear about this price drop in solar panels?" he asked Will and Harold.

"Well you're certainly not going to have some little runaway wedding like you did last time. I mean, really, that was … well, Paul being what he was, I suppose you had no choice. But this is very different, isn't it?"

Christine said, "Mrs. Carson, do you want me to send someone out to the car to get you a sweater? You seem chilled."

Stephanie looked at her, confused. "Pardon?"

"You do look a bit chilly," Olivia agreed. "Here, take my wrap. Will, put this around Mother Carson's shoulders, would you?"

He did as he was told, over her protests.

After dinner, Robert made some suggestion about going out on the town. Olivia shook her head. "Oh, I don't think that's a good idea. Stephanie's already worn out, and you all have such a big weekend ahead."

"I'm not that tired," the woman protested.

"You look tired," her husband answered. "You're right, let's head back and make it an early night."

On the front sidewalk, Will said, "Here, Mother Carson, take my arm, this wet sidewalk looks slippery."

"I'm fine."

"Take his arm," Robert grumbled. He offered his own arm to Olivia. "Last thing I need is you breaking a hip this weekend."

Harold did not join in, but he enjoyed every minute of it.

He also enjoyed, very much, that two prominent CEOs who also happened to be dining there (they'd gotten personal last-minute invitations from the restaurant owner, as favorite customers) made a point of drawing Christine aside to speak to her. She'd done security audits for both of their companies, and they'd both offered her jobs. The older Carsons didn't know that. They only knew that the young woman who was not Will's sister was well-regarded in the community.

Christine herself gave him the side-eye after the second encounter, but he could only smile and nod. It was a minor interference, and she let him get away with it.

As she always did.

* * *

At midnight, while over a hundred early-arriving Carson family members watched _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ in the main ballroom – and many also did a horrible job of acting, dancing and singing along – John Reese took Julie Carson and Christine Fitzgerald back out to the landfill and let them kill rats.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Olivia asked mildly when she emerged from her bedroom the next morning .

Christine was standing directly in front of Will, fiddling intently with something on his shirt. It was almost 'fixing his tie' pose, but Will of course wasn't wearing a tie, just a presentable sweater that the girls had picked out for him the day before.

"I'm wiring him," Christine answered. She stepped back and looked down at her tablet, which was running on the coffee table. Then she moved in to do further adjustments.

"Are you going undercover? Looking for who's stealing the silverware?"

Will shook his head. "Do you know how many people are going to be at this brunch?"

"Many."

"Many many. And I'm never going to remember all their names."

Olivia looked at the tablet. It showed a real-time, extreme close-up of the front of Christine's shirt. "How does wearing a camera help that?"

"It doesn't," Julie said, coming from the other bedroom. "The earpiece does." She tucked it into Will's right ear and ran the clip back behind it.

Olivia looked to Christine. "So you're going to stay up here and fake him through it?"

"That's the plan."

"I wish you had another set of those."

Christine stepped back and looked at the tablet again. "Perfect."

"Good." Will pulled his sweater down a little, and the picture moved again.

"Stop that." Christine adjusted the camera yet again – it was tiny enough to be invisible inside the weave of the sweater – and slapped his hands away. "I have a back-up set," she said to Olivia.

"You can't possibly coach two of us at once."

"I can try."

"Put them on different channels," Julie suggested. "It could work."

The tech guru looked Olivia up and down. "You look great. You'll need a broach or a scarf or something."

"You're actually going to do this?"

"Sure, why not?"

Olivia smiled. "I love this woman, Will. Julie, come with me, help me accessorize."

"And then boot up your laptop for me, would you? I'm gonna need the screen."

* * *

Harold let himself into the suite while the brunch was going on. He found Christine sitting at the dinette table with three laptops, two tablets, and a cup of coffee. She two live feeds running side by side, and her database of Carson faces up on the third screen. Will, on Channel A, kept moving, and she was feeding him names almost constantly. Olivia, on Channel B, was apparently sitting down already and the people around her changed much less frequently.

He touched her shoulder and she waved her empty coffee cup at him. Obediently he went and refilled it, then pulled a chair up beside her. "How's it going?" he asked, when both pictures were static.

"Only missed six so far."

"Six of …?"

"A hundred or so." She hit her A key. "Hunter on your left. Madison Grace on your right." She muted again. "And you?"

"Just lurking about, trying to be helpful."

"Can I ask you something? How in the world do you …" She paused, hit the B key. "Thomas left, Andrew right." Mute. "How in the world do you _own_ a hotel and not have any of the employees recognize you?"

"Well, Miss Dobrica knows me, of course, but she's sworn to secrecy. Most of the rest haven't seen me in person. The hotel is owned through a holding company. At best they'd know me as the owners' representative. Or the owners' insurance agent."

"Do you ever lose track?"

"Of my various aliases? No."

"Never?"

"Never." He gestured.

She hit A again. "Left to right, Donald, Jacob and … shit."

"Donavan," Finch supplied.

Christine didn't hesitate. "Donavan." Mute again. "How'd you know that?"

He smiled wryly. "What was one of the first things you ever told me? No one has adequate back-up?"

She didn't answer. She just scooted her chair over to make more room for his.

Harold smiled and settled in.

* * *

In the afternoon, Olivia Ingram sat in a relatively quiet corner of the lobby, alone, reading. There was a tall glass on the table beside her, ice and clear liquid and a mint sprig. Knowing Olivia, it was water. But it looked elegant. _She_ looked elegant. She wore a simple blouse and slacks, but they were very well-made and well-tailored. Medium diamond studs casually decorated her ears, and she had a thin gold chain around her neck. She looked as if she rolled out of bed and dressed that well every day.

The Olivia Harold had first met lived in jeans and oversized t-shirts, usually Nathan's. But she had dressed to impress the Carson family, and she'd done it to understated perfection.

He doubted that she cared much about the Carsons' opinion of her. But for Will's sake, she'd gone all out. To insure that they had nothing to look down their well-bred noses at him about. Which was ironic, because her son didn't much care about the Carsons' opinion of him, and her future daughter-in-law cared even less.

Still, he supposed, these are the things you did for family.

Olivia seemed content, and Harold was reluctant to interrupt her. He almost didn't. Then he recognized his own excuse for what it was and went over. "Olivia?"

She looked up, and her face went carefully blank. "Harold." If she was annoyed or pleased or angry, she didn't give it away. She gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Please, will you join me? Would you like a drink of some kind? We could ask for tea. They're very obliging here."

"No, thank you, I'm fine." Harold sat down, carefully in the middle of the chair, neither anxious on the forward edge nor reclining back. "You look lovely."

"Thank you." Again her voice was perfectly neutral, as if they were strangers. Well, that was fair enough, Harold reflected.

"What have you done with the children?"

"The tall handsome one smuggled Christine out the back after brunch. Will and Julie are with her siblings, playing something called _Cards Against Humanity_, which I gather is a game best played without one's mother present."

"Ah." He studied her for a moment. She was sitting back, but not relaxed. They had always been like this, uneasy adversaries or uncomfortable allies, depending on the needs of the moment.

Two of the Carson herd trotted in. They were boys, alike enough to be fraternal twins, about twelve years old. "Excuse me," the first said politely, "do you know where Grandma Stephanie is?"

Harold was fairly sure she'd gone to the theater with a group of her generation, but before he could speak Olivia answered, "I think she'd gone up to her room. She was quite tired after the brunch; I believe she wanted to take a nap."

The boys looked at her. "Grandma doesn't take naps," the second one said.

"Well, she is getting older, you know," Olivia said gently. "Whatever you need, perhaps you should find an aunt or uncle to ask."

The boys looked around. "There's Uncle Charles," one said, pointing. "He'll let us do it." He trotted away.

The other boy paused long enough to say, "Thank you," before he followed.

When they were safely out of earshot, Harold murmured, "_Don't you think she looks tired_? It's a brilliant strategy."

Olivia smiled tightly, but she was clearly pleased.

"Thank you for coming," he continued. "For helping this way."

"Thank you for letting me help. There was a time when you wouldn't have."

Harold nodded briefly. "I'm sorry for that. I know at times I should have …" He brought his words up short. _I should have called you when Nathan showed up at my doorstep, falling down drunk in the middle of the night? _he thought._ Or when he turned up at midnight, sober but reeking of a college girl's perfume? Or when he stumbled into the office in the morning in yesterday's shirt, hung over? _No. She might resent the secrets he'd helped Nathan keep from her, but she would have resented the truth far more. He was certain of that.

All the words that he didn't say hung between them, perfectly understood.

"I wanted to see her for myself," Olivia said calmly. "To see if there was any chance it was true."

Harold shook his head. "She's not Nathan's daughter."

"No," Olivia agreed. "Was she one of his indiscretions?"

_Indiscretions. Is that what she'd decided to call her ex-husband's serial affairs?_ "No."

"Are you sure?"

He smiled tightly and drew out his phone. "The last time Nathan saw Christine, she wasn't much older than this." He scanned rapidly to the picture, held it out to her. He'd planned for this question, which was why he'd pre-loaded the image.

Olivia took the phone and studied the screen. Nathan stood proudly with his very first class of high school interns. Will stood beside him in the back row, looking bored and unhappy. Harold leaned and pointed with his fingertip. "This is Christine."

To call her 'plain' in that particular image was generous. She'd been fourteen when it was taken, small and thin and unkempt. But she was standing directly in front of Nathan, and he had his hand on her shoulder.

Nathan had known, before any of them, what her potential was. Nathan had seen past her ugly duckling exterior and into her brilliant mind.

Olivia shook her head and handed the camera back. "The Red Shirts."

"You didn't approve of the interns?" Harold asked cautiously.

She smiled tightly. "The summer after Will's sophomore year, Nathan wanted him to go to work with him, a couple days a week, at IFT. To make copies and deliver mail and whatever. Intern duties. To learn his way around. Will wanted to chase girls and hang out at the pool and play video games. He wanted no part of IFT. He never cared about computers, anyhow. They fought about it, and then Nathan dropped it. Until the next year, when he created his Red Shirts program. He told Will if he didn't appreciate the opportunities he was offered, someone else's son or daughter probably would."

Harold groaned softly. That was exactly the sort of thing Nathan would say. "I'm sorry."

"Well. He wasn't entirely wrong."

"But he _was_ entirely impolitic."

"Impolitic. That's a good word for it. You always have a good word for things, Harold." She gestured to the phone. "She's the one, isn't she? The one he used to brag about. The rock star."

"Yes."

"And she is, isn't she? She was fantastic this morning."

Harold nodded. "In her own way, yes. She's as bright as he thought she was. As talented. But her definition of success is … somewhat different than Nathan's was."

"Which is why she has a coffee shop instead of a corporation of her own."

Christine had, in fact, two corporations of her own, but neither was the type Olivia was referring to, and Harold did not correct her. "Yes."

Olivia returned the phone. "Is she yours?"

"My daughter? No."

"Your indiscretion."

He blinked, startled. "We just established that she's young enough to be my daughter."

The woman waved a casual hand, flashing the three-carat blue-white diamond her husband had given her for their tenth anniversary in a desperate – and ultimately unsuccessful – attempt to rescue their floundering marriage. "That wouldn't have stopped Nathan."

"I'm not Nathan." It came out colder and sharper than Harold had intended. "I'm sorry. I … no. I am very fond of Miss Fitzgerald, but she is not my paramour."

Olivia smiled smugly, the way she always had when she'd provoked a reaction from him. She picked up her glass and took a delicate sip, then put it down very precisely. "It must have annoyed you when Will found a fiancée of his own before you could put the two of them together. Or was Julie part of your grand scheme, too?"

Harold's guard was up now; her verbal jabs couldn't get through to him. "I had no part in introducing Will to Miss Carson," he answered calmly. "Though if I had set out to find him a perfect partner, in my opinion I could not have done any better."

"She is an excellent match for him."

"I think they'll be very happy together. At least I hope so."

"And this windmill idea of his. I suppose that's not your doing, either?"

He smiled tightly. "Do you honestly think, Olivia, that knowing Will as I do, I would suggest anything that even remotely sounded like tilting at windmills?"

"No." She laughed lightly, politely. "No, of course not. You're much more the fossil fuel type, aren't you? The safe and the practical."

She was goading him again, gently and rather politely. He didn't take the bait.

Olivia said, "You don't really think he can succeed, do you?"

"In building a million windmills?" Harold shrugged. "I doubt it. But the worst outcome I can anticipate is that he works at it for a year, or ten years, or twenty, and spends a great deal of money, and then gives up or grows bored and walks away from it. And that would be far preferable to him spending that time and money on fast cars and poker games, wouldn't it?"

"And the best case?"

"The best case is that he spends the rest of his life and a great deal of his fortune, pursuing a goal that he believes in and is passionate about. And in the end, whether he reaches his goal or not, he will help a great many people."

She stared at him, gave him a small but genuine smile. "That sounded like Nathan, too. You've become almost poetic."

"Almost," he allowed. He leaned forward. "He could change the world, Olivia."

"He could break his heart, too." She shook her head. "Honestly, if it was just him, I'd be trying to talk him out of this. Will is too trusting, too giving. But with Julie – maybe you're right."

"She is the perfect balance for him."

"The steel," Olivia agreed. "The practicality for his dreams."

"Exactly."

She took a deep breath. "He's the heart and she's the courage. And your Christine is the brain, isn't she?"

_She's not my Christine_, Finch thought, but he didn't argue; she wouldn't believe him anyhow. "Perhaps. If we can convince her to stay involved."

"You'll convince her," Olivia predicted. "I suppose in this scenario I'm the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"Oh, no," Harold corrected quickly. He gestured toward the door. "That would be Mrs. Carson. You're the Good Witch of the North. Dropping in beautifully to bestow a bit of wisdom and glamour as needed."

She accepted the compliment with a small smile. "And of course you're the great and powerful Wizard."

He smiled back. "Hiding behind the curtain to conceal how small and unimpressive I really am."

"But still working all the knobs and levers. And getting the others to do what you wish."

Harold looked away for a moment. He wanted to argue again, but she wasn't wrong. "I have always had Will's best interest at heart," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

"I know." Olivia smiled again, this time with a bit of self-deprecation. "To be honest, when you called I was ready to come down here and take your head off. But seeing you with him … I know you want what's best for him. I know you do the best you can for him. And I do appreciate that. Even if it kills me to say so."

"Thank you," Harold answered warmly.

"I'm curious, though. Who's Dorothy in this little scenario of yours?"

"The people they'll help, I suppose."

They sat for a moment, comfortable finally in the silence. Or at least as comfortable as they were ever likely to be together.

"I miss him," Olivia said unexpectedly. "Nathan. It's funny, isn't it? All the years we were separated, I never missed him a bit. I suppose it's because there was always some remote chance …" She went silent. Then she picked up her glass and sipped again.

"I miss him, too."

"But you've found his replacement, finally."

"His …"

"Your Christine," she said, with a casual gesture of her fingertips. "She shares your secrets and she helps you keep them. And she may adore Will and Julie, but she's lied to them and she will go right on lying to protect you. Ultimately, she's devoted to you and your goals." She smirked, very slightly. "Nathan's apprentice. He taught her well."

_Not my Christine_, Harold thought again. But the rest of it was true. Mostly. "She has a mind of her own," he countered, without heat. "But even if she didn't – if my goal is to further Will's goals, and she's wholly invested in that, what difference does it make?"

Olivia considered, then shrugged, unwilling to argue. Unexpectedly, she said, "I'm glad you're not alone."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say.

"A million windmills," Olivia said wistfully.

"Nathan would have loved it," Harold answered with certainty.


	22. Chapter 22

Joss Carter took a late lunch and drove out to Chaos. She wasn't entirely against the idea of Taylor taking a year off before college and working for Will Ingram. But she knew her son well enough to know that he might not have gotten all – or any – of the details straight. He tended to hear what he wanted to hear. She needed to check with the adults to make sure they were all on the same page.

She had to park at the end of the block. As she got out of her car, she saw a big group near the front of the café. At first she thought it was reporters again. But they were too casually dressed, and as she strode toward them, she saw that they were too young. There were boys in their late teens, maybe early twenties, all in jeans and red plaid shirts. Not a gang she knew – yet. They had cornered three much younger girls, all in hajibs, against the front of the building, and they were teasing and taunting them.

"Shit," Carter said. She reached behind her back to touch her service weapon, but she didn't draw it yet. She broke into a trot.

Then Christine was between the boys and the girls.

Fitzgerald wasn't a big woman, but she was loud and fearless. Loud, Carter knew, would bring very prompt back-up out of the café. The boys backed off a step, all except for the leader. He was taller than the others, maybe a little older, and he stood close, in Christine's space. He laughed, teasing her now. She didn't back down.

Carter heard him jeer, "You know the rules, if there's grass on the field, play …"

Christine's fist hit the boy's jaw before he got the last word out.

"Ah, hell." The detective drew her weapon and ran.

Carter saw the silver SUV pass her out of the corner of her eye, but her attention was focused on the crowd. Christine had thrown a good punch, spun the boy around, but she hadn't dropped him. He turned and grabbed her arm. Carter barely registered that the vehicle had stopped, that the driver had jumped out. She had to get there …

There was a flash of black leather between the two of them. The man was smaller, faster, meaner. Efficient. He grabbed the boy by the front of his shirt with one hand and hit him repeatedly with the other. They were short, sharp jabs. Effective.

The boy's friends moved to help him. Other men from the SUV stepped in and backed them off with looks and short words. There were no weapons in evidence, but the boys clearly knew there would be in a minute. They were punk kids in a lose pack. The men from the vehicle were actual mobsters. The boys retreated and left their leader on his own.

Carter slowed to a walk and put her weapon away as Anthony Marconi continued to beat the hell out of the boy.

She mentally calculated how soon she'd have to step in to stop him from actually killing the kid, but the boy sagged and Marconi stopped hitting him. He still held him up by his shirt.

He looked up at Christine, who had moved to stand with the frightened Muslim girls. "Enough?" he asked.

"One more."

Zubec came out of the café with some others, but they stayed in the doorway, out of the way. Clearly Marconi had it handled.

Scarface hit him once more. Then he dragged him up and shoved him towards his friends. "New rule," he announced. "From now on, you don't walk on this block. Ever. Clear?"

They muttered answered.

"Clear?" Marconi repeated loudly.

"Clear," they responded as one.

"Get him out of here."

The boys dragged their battered leader away, past Carter.

Marconi looked her squarely in the eye and raised one eyebrow in question.

"There a problem here?" Carter asked easily. "I was just checking my phone, didn't really see what happened."

Scarface grinned crookedly at her. "No problem, Detective."

"Good."

He turned to Christine. She stepped away from the girls and gave him a warm hug. "Hey, Anthony. Good to see you."

Carter fought to keep her face neutral.

"You, too," he said. "You smell good."

"It's Chanel, and it's not mine. I can't get it to wash off." Christine took his hand and studied it, made a little 'tsking' noise. "Igor," she said calmly, "have Davey bring me an ice pack and a double espresso, would you please?"

"Sure," he grumbled like thunder. He turned back and yelled through the door.

"Would you walk the girls home for me?"

He wiped his huge hands on his white apron. "I will."

Marconi gestured to one of his men. "Go with him, make sure those punks don't bother them."

It wasn't necessary, of course. Carter didn't know Igor Zubec's background in specific, but she could tell by the way he moved that he had some serious military training. Plus the boys would probably run straight home with their tails tucked between their legs – and deservedly so. It was a question of courtesy and authority. Marconi had won the fight. He got to see it through. Christine and Zubec didn't object.

Christine gestured them to a table on the patio. The smaller barista came out with the espresso and the ice pack. She slid the little cup over to Marconi, then took his hand in hers again and pressed the ice pack against his lightly bloodied and fast-bruising knuckles.

That was part of the game, too. Scarface would never have admitted that his hand hurt in front of his guys. He would have just brushed it off. But letting a pretty woman fuss over him a little was okay. She didn't quite say 'oh my hero', but she wasn't afraid to let her appreciation show through her actions. And Marconi wasn't afraid to bask a little.

His guys retreated to stand by the SUV. Davey offered Carter a cup of coffee and went back inside to get it.

"How's your mom?" Christine asked.

"She's good." Marconi leaned back in his chair, sprawled his legs out, completely relaxed. "She loves that cookbook you found for her. Said her mother used to have that one in her kitchen and she's been looking for it forever."

Christine smiled. "I thought that was the right one."

"She says you should come to Sunday dinner some time."

"I will."

Those words sounded hollow to Carter's ear. The polite promise that would likely never be kept. But it was obvious that these two had known each other for a long time.

Davey brought her coffee. She took a sip. House blend, a little cream, easily the best coffee in the city. "You're kind of a long way from home," she said, without any challenge in her voice.

Marconi nodded. He looked at Christine. "Elias asked me to have a word with you."

"With me?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

"We hear Teeny Bellatore's been spending some time here."

"Since when does Elias care who I'm knocking boots with?"

"He doesn't care who you're knocking boots with," Scarface corrected easily. "He cares who you're getting _into bed_ with."

"Bellatore's been retired for years."

"Now that Holly's out of the way, Elias thinks maybe he's considering a comeback. He feels that would be an unfortunate miscalculation."

"And what's that got to do with me?" Christine asked.

"Your brain, his muscle? You could be a little problem." He smiled crookedly again, without malice. The mob boss' lieutenant could be very threatening when he wanted to be, even without words, but he remained relaxed here, almost amused. "Maybe you get ambitious, decide to make yourself the Queen of Manhattan."

She smiled back. "Anthony, if I decided to make myself queen of an island, it's going to be one with good rum and bad cabana boys where the only frost I ever see is on the rim of my glass."

He sipped his espresso, unsurprised. "And Teeny?"

"If he's planning a comeback, he didn't say anything about it to me. Of course, he was falling-down drunk. He kept talking about buying a vineyard."

Zubec and Marconi's man came back. The barista eyeballed Scarface balefully; the lieutenant looked right back at him. Silent warnings delivered and standoff achieved, Zubec went inside.

As if there had been no pause, Marconi nodded. "A vineyard would be a good choice. I'll let Elias know."

_Just like that?_ Carter wondered. But Elias trusted Marconi completely, and Marconi apparently trusted Christine.

The hacker lifted the ice pack and checked his knuckles, then put it back down.

"If he does approach you," Anthony went on easily, "we need to hear about it."

"He won't," she assured him. "He knows I'm out of the game. And even if he did, I've got no interest. I've been given a new … purpose, apparently." Her voice twisted on those final words, accepting but aware of the irony. "I'm going to build windmills."

"Windmills?"

"Renewable energy. Worldwide. With Will Ingram."

"The billionaire? That why you're spending so much time with him?"

Christine cocked her head.

"I read the papers." Marconi quirked a little grin at her. "Never knew you had a brother."

"He's not my brother," she answered with resigned exasperation.

"Those reporters. They been chasin' you."

"Yeah."

"Elias might be able to discourage their interest."

Carter sipped her coffee again, watchful.

"I think we've got it handled," Christine answered easily. "But thank you. I'll keep it in mind."

"There any money in it?" Marconi asked. "Windmills?"

"Not now. But there will be, down the road. One more big power outage, everybody in the city's going to want their own solar battery or something."

"Huh. Interesting." He downed the rest of his drink, gently disengaged his hand and stood up.

Christine stood up and hugged him again. "It's good to see you, Anthony."

"If those guys come back, you let me know, right?"

"I will. Thanks."

Marconi gestured for his men, got in the car, and drove off.

Carter said, "You're not really going to call him, are you?"

"Yeah. Like I need to be washing blood off these sidewalks again."

The detective chuckled. Then she remembered that Christine's father had died on these sidewalks. She took a deep breath. "How do you know Marconi?"

"We came up together. Used to work in the same pizza place."

"Scarface delivered pies?"

"Well, pies and drugs."

"Ahh." That made more sense to Carter. That was the Anthony Marconi she knew. "I don't have to tell you he's trouble, right?"

Christine shook her head. "I know all about Anthony."

The detective almost hated to ask the next question. "And you're sure about Bellatore?"

"If he's planning to make a play for the city, he didn't say anything to me about it."

"And you wouldn't help him?"

"I've got way bigger fish to fry." She smirked. "Me and Teeny, or me and Elias? Either way. best case we take over the city. Me and Ingram? We can take over the _world_."

"Great."

"We're gonna get sharks with frickin' lasers on their heads."

Carter laughed. "Just try to stay out of trouble, okay?"

"I always _try_. You just here for the coffee, or is there something on your mind?"

"Taylor," Joss said. "I wanted to ask you about this windmill thing. Taylor wants to take a year off from school and help you get it going."

"I know. He asked me about it. I said he had to talk to you."

Carter nodded. "I should have figured."

"I don't think it's a terrible idea," Christine said carefully. "But he's not my son."

"He's not ready for college," Joss admitted.

"He's not excited about college, anyhow. He's excited about this. The tech – there are a million different developments going on in renewable energy. It fascinates him."

"I know." The detective smirked. "I found tech magazines hidden under his mattress."

"Oooh, kinky." She shrugged. "We're still in the really early planning stages. I can think of a hundred things he could help with right now. In six months there will be a thousand. I can tell you that we'll keep him busy and out of trouble. Beyond that, I really can't say."

"You're not taking him on just because he's my son, are you? Or because Harold asked you to?"

"He's smart, he's curious, he's hard-working. And he's flexible."

"That wasn't a no."

"Sorry. No."

Joss shook her head. "It's a big change from what he's used to. We're just … working people, you know? Will Ingram ..."

"Owns three pair of shoes," Christine informed her. "Old leather loafers, old leather sandals, and a dress pair that he only wears to weddings and funerals."

It was hard to argue with that kind of logic. Like Finch, Christine had a way of knowing exactly what to say. "If he was your son," she finally said, "would you let him do this?"

Fitzgerald didn't hesitate. "The summer that I spent working with Nathan Ingram changed my life," she said. "And in the long run, saved it. Will and Julie are good people. With a good cause. This may not be what Taylor wants for the rest of his life. It probably isn't. But it is a damn good place for him to start."

Carter finished her coffee. "You're sure you want him?"

"I'm sure."

"If he gets out of line," she said, "I'll expect you to treat him like he _was_ your own."

"I'll keep that in mind." She gestured to the cup. "Refill?"

Carter sighed. "I'll take one to go."

* * *

By Saturday the elegant hotel had begun to take on the feel of a family campground. Groups swapped children and babysitting duties; the restaurant and the bar had become grazing areas for all ages, and there were two cash poker games going on in the open lobby.

John Reese had been an only child. He watched the ebb and flow of the groups with great fascination, and also with some concern. If something went wrong here, they're never get them sorted out …

He walked the property at irregular intervals and in irregular patterns. The security details – several different companies combined – were very good, and he didn't have any deep concerns. It was just habit, and something to kill time. He was devoutly grateful he wasn't hauling the Carsons' luggage around. There was an awful lot of it.

Since they'd started arriving on Thursday, John had helped haul two very drunk men to their rooms, broken up three fistfights, including one between teenage girls, tracked down a lost dog (if you considered an animal that could be carried in a purse to be an actual dog), returned four smartphones to their owners, taken liquor away from minors twice, and sent three couples out of the public spaces for inappropriate displays of affection. He'd paid special attention to two elderly women who seemed exceptionally frail, and to two younger women who were very, very pregnant (there were eleven more who were visibly pregnant but not imminently so), plus one teenage boy who had diabetes that he didn't manage very well. They were a varied and active group, and they clearly felt very entitled, but they were also usually surprisingly polite, and they looked after each other.

He found he liked the Carsons, as a whole, just a little more than he'd thought he would.

In the middle of his rounds, John came out of the men's locker room and nearly stumbled over a small child. The girl had pale brown hair and big brown eyes, and was maybe three years old. She was wearing a blue jumper that probably cost more than John's first car. "Hello," he said.

She looked up at him seriously. "Hello."

"Are you lost?"

"No." The toddler was perfectly calm and unafraid. "I'm just looking."

He crouched on his heels in front of her. "Looking for what?"

"Just looking."

"What's your name?"

"Caroline Marie Carson."

"Well, Caroline Marie Carson, I bet people are looking for you right now."

She pursed her tiny lips. "Prolly not."

Reese considered. She was probably right – for the moment. "Can I go looking with you?"

"Okay."

"Can we let your parents know we're going exploring?"

"Okay."

"Okay." He stood and picked up the house phone. The concierge, who already knew John had all-access clearance, didn't know what room Caroline Marie Carson belonged to, but he promised to find out, and to let any worried parents know that she was safely accompanied on her tour. John in turn promised to deliver her to the desk when she got tired.

He put his phone away and held his hand out to the little girl. "What would you like to look at first?"

"Is there a kitchen?"

"Yes. A big one."

"Do they have cookies?"

"I don't know. But we could ask."

She took his hand and they headed out.

* * *

"Olivia? Can I talk to you?"

Olivia smiled up at her daughter-in-law to be. "Of course, Julie. What's wrong?"

"I need to ask you something, and I need to you be honest."

"Alright."

"Do you have … I mean, what do you …"

Olivia took her hand. "Sit down. It's just me."

The young woman sat down next to her. "I know Will's your only son. Your only … I need to know if you have any plans, any … dreams, I guess."

"Just tell me, sweetheart."

"Our wedding. Will's wedding. When you think about it, what do you imagine? What would you really like?"

"What do I dream about for my son's wedding?"

"Yes, that."

Olivia smiled wryly. "Honestly, I always figured he'd come back from a long assignment in Africa with a wife I'd never met and two grandchildren in his backpack."

"Oh."

"Your mother wants a great white wedding."

"Yes."

"Nathan and I had one of those. Because my mother wanted it, mostly. We nearly killed each other at the service, and we didn't speak to each other for three days afterward. It was not the best way to start a marriage."

Julie smiled uncertainly.

"So if you're asking for my opinion, for my wishes – I want you to have the kind of wedding that makes the most sense to you and to Will. Do what _you_ want, and don't worry about the parents. But don't not have something because your mother wants it if you do. If that made any sense."

"If I wanted a big wedding, I shouldn't not have it because I know she wants it, too."

"Exactly."

"I don't. I just want … something small and … but he's an only child, and I don't want you to not have something that's important to you."

Olivia leaned and kissed her on the forehead. "Oh, my sweet girl. Well then, here's what I want from your wedding. At the end of it, I want to be able to officially call you my daughter. And I'd really rather there wasn't any topless dancing." She gestured to her chest. "That's really not my best feature any more, without proper support."

Julie laughed out loud. "No partial nudity. Check."

"Other than that, anything goes. Decide on as much or as little as you want. I'll do whatever I can to help you." She held her arms out and hugged the younger woman. "And why do I sense that this is suddenly much more imminent than it was when you came in here?"

"Soon," Julie said warmly. "Very soon."

"Whatever you like." Olivia kissed her cheek gently. "Oh, I've always wanted a daughter."

* * *

Harold had never quite understood the insistence on formal speeches at something that should have been a casual family event. He supposed there was some attraction in being in the spotlight, holding everyone's polite attention for a few minutes, but it was not something he would ever have sought. And too, with a group as large as the Carson family, a certain amount of formality was required just to address basic logistics. Still, the big dinner on Saturday night all seemed achingly stiff and formal, more of a business meeting than a birthday celebration.

The oldest son spoke. The oldest daughter spoke. The oldest brother spoke. It was banal. They said the expected things, told family stories that were clearly familiar to nearly everyone in the room. Old jokes, and Harold guessed a few old lies. It was all very pleasant. Comfortable. Tedious.

He had been fortunate enough to have had Nathan to send to events like this on behalf of the company.

Nathan had wined and dined and smiled and charmed, and Harold had been left in blessed solitude to work.

Small wonder Nathan drank.

The oldest grandchild spoke, with merciful brevity, and introduced the guest of honor. Robert Carson Junior rose and made his way to the podium.

As if his thought had summoned him, Nathan's son excused himself from his table and moved quietly to the back of the room. He didn't speak; he gave Harold a wry smile, tugged his tie a little loose, and leaned back against the wall next to him.

"I was just thinking," Harold began, very quietly.

"About Dad?" Will nodded. "Me, too. All those banquets and awards dinners he was always going to."

"Yes. Exactly."

They were silent for a time, while the senior Carson spoke about his grandfather, a poor immigrant. From the glowing terms of the speech, no one would have guessed the man was a career criminal.

"I miss him," Harold said.

Will tugged at his tie again. "Me, too." He looked across the room, to where Olivia sat with Julie. Both women were smiling and nodding politely as the speech progressed. "Although I have to wonder which version would have been here. The smiling charming Nathan who made everything better, or the drunk one who'd disappear with the waitress."

Harold started to speak, and Will raised his hand slightly. "Don't. I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. You're not wrong."

"No. But there's no point on reliving that now. I just … it's funny. All the stuff we used to fight about, all the stuff he told me I had to do. Cut my hair, finish my residency, stop hanging out with my punk friends, stop dating girls with nose rings. Get a real life. Get a purpose. All the stuff I hated hearing from him, all the stuff I pushed back against. And look at me." He ran his hand back through his respectably short hair, in an unconscious replication of his father's gesture. "I cut my hair. I'm marrying a rich girl from a very good family. We're starting our own company. We have a purpose. Maybe a stupid one, but …"

"It's not stupid," Harold interjected quickly. "If your windmill helps even one person, Will, it's not stupid."

"I really wish he was here," Will said wistfully. "But honestly …"

"There'd be no living with him," Harold finished for him.

"Yeah, exactly." The young man shrugged. "It'd be worth it."

Finch put his hand on the young man's shoulder and they listened in companionable silence to the rest of Carson's droning speech.

* * *

From the _New York Journal_, social page:

William Charles Ingram and Julie Angela Carson were married on Sunday evening in the Library Meeting Room at the Coronet Hotel in Manhattan. A few close friends and family members were in attendance. The civil ceremony was conducted by Judge Samuel Gates, Sr., who commented that, as a criminal court judge, he had never performed a wedding before. The ceremony was followed by a brief reception at which champagne and spice cake were served. The newlyweds were then presented with a picnic dinner prepared by the Coronet's kitchen and were driven to the Teterboro Airport, where they departed by private jet for London.

No photos from the ceremony were made available.


	23. Chapter 23

John and Christine sat down at the bar, well away from the front windows. Zubec brought them Irish coffee. It was his own recipe, and it tasted like heaven. "Somebody was here looking for you," he said gruffly.

"Again?" Christine groaned.

"Another reporter?" John asked.

The big barista shook his head. "I don't think so. Different one, anyhow. Red-head. Said she was looking for help to find a man."

Reese felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to bristle.

"She leave a number?" Christine asked.

"Nope. I offered, she said she'd stop back. Kinda skittish. Quiet." Zubec shrugged. "I might've scared her."

"As you do."

"How old was she?" Reese asked, trying to sound casual.

"Eh, early thirties, maybe. Little bitty thing."

"Well, if you see her again," Christine said, "give me a yell."

"Will do."

The barista moved away. Reese sipped his coffee appreciatively. "So. The newlyweds are happily away."

"They are. We're going to plan the apartment and the office in the cloud, and then we'll go from there."

He lifted his cup. "To new horizons."

"Fair enough." She clicked her cup to his and they drank again. "Of course, I need to hit the books like, yesterday."

"You'll figure it out."

"Hmmm."

"I thought I'd come over tomorrow and work on the yard."

Christine shook her head. "No point in that until they're done tramping through with construction materials."

"True."

"You can still come over if you want, though."

He nodded. "We'll see what the morning brings."

They were quiet for a while, content. Then a delivery guy showed up, and Christine slid off her barstool to sign for the paper goods. "Be right back."

"No rush." Reese pulled out his phone.

When she was safely engaged in putting things away, Reese scrolled swiftly through the photos on his phone. He gestured Zubec back over. "The woman who was here. Is this her?"

Zubec studied the photo briefly. "No. She was younger than this. A little less …" he gestured to his own face " … delicate. Stronger chin, bigger jaw. Bigger eyes. And darker skin. I don't think she was a real red-head."

John sighed in relief. "Good. Thanks."

"She's pretty," Zubec said, gesturing to the phone.

"Yeah. And if you ever see her in here, I need to hear about it."

"Dangerous?"

"No. Just problematic." He clicked off the photo of Grace Hendricks and tucked his phone away. "If you see the other one again, let me know, too."

"I will," Zubec promised.

They weren't exactly friends, John thought, but he and the big barista had enough in common to be comrades. He liked having him around Christine. And even though she'd moved away from Chaos, Zubec was still close. In an emergency, he could probably get to her long before John did.

Of course, once Julie and Will took up residence at the new place, she'd had professional bodyguards on hand 24/7. He liked that idea _very_ much.

Christine came back and sat down again. "What?"

"What what?"

"You're smiling."

"I smile sometimes," John insisted.

"No, you're smiling in that up-to-something way."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not up to something."

She cocked her head. Then she gave up with a sigh. "Men!"

* * *

Carl Elias moved cautiously into the vistors room. He wasn't expecting anyone, and while he welcomed the diversion, he was also wary. The guards were all bought and paid for, of course – but men who could be bought could always be re-bought by a higher bidder.

The man sitting on the other side of the table was unmistakable simply because of his size. Teeny Bellatore was more than a foot taller than Elias, and roughly three hundred pounds heavier. He was wearing a polo shirt, black, open at the neck to reveal a deep black pelt on his chest.

He was like some massive silverback gorilla waiting to pummel a younger rival.

Teeny rose a little when Elias entered the room, just far enough for his ass to clear the chair, enough to show a token respect.

"Hello," Elias said quietly. "I wasn't expecting visitors today."

Bellatore nodded. "Just passing through on my way back home. Thought I'd stop and pay my respects."

"I appreciate your courtesy."

Teeny jerked his head. In the corner of the room, a tall, slender young man waited silently. He wasn't, as Elias had feared, Bellatore's muscle. He wasn't his Marconi. He was just a skinny kid. "My associate," the big man said, "Clay. I want to let you get eyes on him, in case I need to send him to you in the future."

"Do you think that's likely?" Elias asked calmly.

"No. But one never knows."

"Of course." He nodded to the young man. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He turned his attention back to Bellatore. The big man was studying him. "I knew your old man," he said. "Back in the day."

Elias kept his face relaxed, placid. If Bellatore was here for retribution, he didn't think there were enough guards in the block to save his life – if they even bothered to try.

"He was an asshole," the man continued. "And from what I've heard, it wasn't right, the way he treated you."

"I appreciate your sentiment," Elias said. "But I'm sure you didn't come all the way out here to tell me that."

The big man snorted. "I hear you sent your man to see Chrissy Buchannan."

Elias blinked, confused.

"Fitzgerald," Clay offered, very softly. "She changed her name."

"Ah. Miss Fitzgerald," Elias answered. His interested picked up sharply, but he kept his voice calm. "Merely a social call. They are friends from long ago."

"I know about your boy," Teeny said, with a hint of a scoff. "I know what he wanted. So I came to tell you face to face. I'm going back home. Up north. I'm going to buy me a vineyard. Grow some grapes, you know?"

"As one does, in a vineyard."

"You bein' smart with me?"

"Of course not."

"Grow some grapes," Bellatore repeated firmly, "and bottle some wine. If it's any good, I'll come down a couple times a year for tastings or shows or whatever. But beyond that, I got no interest in this city. You can have it, and good luck to you."

"I appreciate your candor," Elias said sincerely. "And your reassurances. You put my mind at ease."

"Just one thing. One carve-out I want."

Elias waited. He did not _have_ to grant this request, of course, but if it was reasonable enough he might do so simply to avoid conflict with the retired Don.

"I known Chrissy since she was no taller than this table," Bellatore continued. "Since she was protectin' her crazy dad from her drunken shrew of a mother. She was a good kid then and she's a nice lady now. And you aren't going to mess with her. Understand?"

It was a direct challenge to his authority, Elias recognized. But it was also done here in private, a courtesy that would allow him to accept this small request without losing face. Bellatore was showing respect at the same time he was demanding it.

Teeny Bellatore could be a problem, if he set his mind to it. His request, though it was inartfully put, was one that Elias was inclined to agree to, for a number of reasons. "I will treat her," he said carefully, "with the respect and deference that I would show to any member of your family."

"Her and all her associates. Her and her business."

"The coffee shop?"

"That and her new thing. Something about windmills or solar panels or something for Africa. With that Ingram kid. I don't know. It doesn't matter. You're gonna keep out of it. Clear?"

Elias took a slow breath. Solar panels. There was some profit in that, he understood, or there would be. Young Ingram was a billionaire. Their new business, whatever it was, would be big, and there would be lots of money. A profitable pie, and one that Elias might be inclined to get his fingers in.

But the obstacles Bellatore could put in front of him would be substantial. Elias swiftly calculated that was worth the sacrifice of any potential profit to insure the older man's continued retirement. Provided that he didn't return with additional requests.

And more importantly, Elias knew that Harold Finch was very much interested and involved in the young lady's future, and the young billionaire's as well. He had already resigned himself to this carve-out, for different reasons. He could well afford to look magnanimous.

"Clear," he agreed.

Bellatore pushed back from the table and stood up, with some effort. "Mr. Elias, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He stuck his hand out.

Elias stood and took the hand. His fingers disappeared into the ham-like fist. Bellatore gave him a little squeeze, just enough to remind him that, old as he was, he could still break the younger man over his knee like kindling.

Elias accepted the warning for what it was. "And you, Mr. Bellatore. Good luck with your grapes."

"I'll send you a bottle, if it's any good."

"I'll look forward to it."

Teeny Bellatore turned sideways through the doorway as he left the room. The skinny teen scampered after him, with a terrified glance back at Elias.

It was an unexpected visit, Carl thought, but it was good. It was very good.

He settled back at the table and held his hand out for the guard's cell phone.

* * *

Carter approached the door cautiously. She looked up and down the street, then eased her lockpicks out of her pocket. But when she pulled gently on the handle, it opened silently.

She paused, sighed. So she was expected, then. She shouldn't have been surprised.

She eased through the door and closed it silently behind her. The access hallway was dim and dusty, with cobwebs in the corners. Carter resisted the urge to draw her weapon. At the far end of the hall it was lighter. She moved that way. Her shoes whispered on the hard floor.

The hall opened onto the main lobby of the library. Yellow light filtered doggedly through the dirt on the high windows. She looked at the books scattered thickly on the floor, and for one instant she thought she must be in the wrong place. But they were cheap paperbacks, the kind you bought at the grocery store or the airport. Nothing important or valuable. She stepped on them gingerly; they were a little slick.

Carter looked around the lobby, but there was nothing to indicate which way she should go.

Then a dog barked above her. Joss turned and looked up the stairs. At the top, Bear wagged his tail happily. Beside her, Finch smiled gently. "Detective," he said. "Please, join me."

He turned and walked away, but Bear trotted down to accompany her up the stairs. "Hello, boy," she said, petting him fondly. At the top of the stairs, the dog turned and continued down the corridor.

"I've made you a cup of tea, Detective," Finch called. "I know you generally prefer coffee, but not this late in the day unless you're working."

She followed the dog past a sliding steel gate and into what was obvious the work room. It was cluttered and very much lived-in.

"Lady Grey, I believe, is your favorite," Finch continued. He fussed at a side table over an honest-to-God silver tea service. "I never cared much for bergamot myself, but Miss Fitzgerald also prefers that variety." He held out a delicate porcelain cup and saucer to her. "Please, make yourself at home."

Bear dropped onto his bed next to the desk.

Carter moved slowly though the space and took the cup. "So this is the Bat Cave."

"Something like that." Finch smiled warmly again and picked up his own cup.

She was drawn to a big bulletin board that was covered with pictures and articles, connected with a web of strings on thumb tacks. "Are these your … people?"

Finch moved to her side. "My failures, I'm afraid. The people I was unable to help. Most occurred prior to my partnership with Mr. Reese."

Under the flatness of his voice, Joss could hear the aching loneliness of that time. The despair. "You had the information. You needed a gun for hire."

"I thought so, initially. But after several … failed attempts … I realized that what I needed was a _partner_. Someone who would be as dedicated to my mission as I myself was. Someone who genuinely cared about these people."

Carter traced her finger down the long list of numbers at the center of the board. "Where are the ones you saved, then?"

Harold chuckled. "All the intelligent women I bring here ask that question." He gestured to a second board. This one was covered edge to edge with pages, and each page was covered with line after line of numbers. Scattered across the flat black and white were tiny splashes of color, highlighted sets of five numbers in pink and yellow, green and blue.

She looked at the numbers and then at him. "The ones you lost," she gestured, "have names and pictures. The ones you saved only have numbers?"

"The ones I lost," Finch explained, "are beyond caring. The ones we saved are still alive. In the event that the library is compromised …"

Carter nodded, understanding. "Who are they?"

"Mafia dons and babies," he said. "Judges and prosecutors and lawyers. Doctors and school teachers." He stopped, chuckled ruefully, then went on. "Runaway teens. Con men. Scoundrels. Spies. And hackers. People from all walks of life."

"Homicide detectives," Carter guessed.

"Yes."

Finch gestured to the side table and they sat down. He offered her a tiny cookie from a matching plate. It looked rather plain, but the taste was very rich.

A huge gray cat appeared and jumped into Finch's lap, nearly causing him to spill his tea. He tried to push her away, but the cat was insistent on staying. He gave up and held the tea over her while he petted her with his free hand.

"Wouldn't have thought you were a cat person, Finch."

"I'm not. But she's an excellent mouser." He made a little face. "If she likes you, perhaps she'll present you with a trophy head later."

"Something to look forward to." Carter sipped her tea. "Why now?"

"Mr. Reese and I," he explained, "have done everything in our power to shield you from this knowledge. To protect you. Because knowing … knowing is very dangerous. And we did not want to endanger you."

His words were very precise, clearly rehearsed and carefully chosen. Carter waited, let him speak at his own pace.

"After all that you've done for us, after all the lives that you're helped us save, being anything less than fully devoted to your safety would have been churlish."

_Churlish_, Joss thought. She wondered when the last time anyone had used that word in a conversation was. Her best guess was fifty years ago. "What's changed?"

"A number of things, including the fact that your curiosity has not diminished, in spite of our warnings about the danger." Harold nodded to himself. "But also, you son now stands to be tangentially involved in this matter. I have seen enough nature documentaries to know that a man endangers the cub at the very real risk of engendering the wrath of the mother. With the aim of avoiding that confrontation, we felt is best if you approached this decision … fully informed."

She put her cup down rather more firmly than she intended to. "Taylor."

"Yes."

"How?"

"Through his association with Dr. Ingram. And his closer association with Miss Fitzgerald."

"I figured Scotty was in this up to her eyeballs. How's Ingram involved in this?"

"He's not. Will knows less about it than you do. Far less. But Will's father …" the loneliness echoed again "… he was very much involved. And it cost him his life. If the truth of what we're doing ever comes out, it's possible – remotely – that they will go after Will. Or anyone close to him."

Joss looked at him for a long moment. This time she knew he was waiting, giving her time. She ate another tiny cookie and sipped her tea. "I think you'd better start at the beginning."

"Very well. But as I believe Mr. Reese once told you, once you go down this path, there's no going back."

"I think I burned that bridge long ago, don't you?"

Finch nodded. "Of course." He sipped his own tea, then set his cup down. "As you know, after 9/11 the government gave itself extraordinary powers to capture and examine every electronic communication that took place. Phone calls, e-mails, file, everything."

Carter nodded.

"What they lacked, however, was a system that could sort through it all. Something that could examine all that data, connect the dots, and accurately predict the next mass-casualty event."

"Prism," she guessed.

Finch shook his head. "Prism was one attempt. There were several others. And the public was allowed to become aware of them because they didn't work. They were sacrificed as diversions."

"But Nathan Ingram created one that did work."

Harold took a deep breath. "Nathan was my partner. And as much as I loathe the term, my corporate beard."

"So all the stuff IFT came up with, all the innovations …"

Finch nodded.

She whistled softly. "And even his own son doesn't know?"

"As far as Will knows, I am his father's dear friend, a doting, supportive insurance executive who needs his assistant to turn on his cell phone for him."

"You've lied to him his whole life."

"Yes."

"Will you ever tell him the truth?"

"Not if I can possibly avoid it. As I've mentioned, knowledge of this secret is very, very dangerous. There are people who would kill to keep it a secret – or to learn how it works."

"The government?"

"And others."

She took a minute to consider. "So _you_ built a system that actually worked. That sorted through this huge haystack of data and found the needles."

"Yes."

"And then you sold it to the government."

"For a dollar. Yes. Well, Nathan did. They had no idea I was involved in any way."

"The potential for abuse …"

"I was well aware of that potential, Detective." His voice took on just a little edge. He modified it before he spoke again. "Abundantly aware. That's why the Machine is a closed system. A black box. They cannot access any part of its programming. They cannot alter it in any way."

"The government went along with that?"

"Not willingly, of course. They tried to hack it the entire time it was in development. They continue to try to hack it to this day. They have not succeeded."

"Is that why they killed Nathan Ingram? They were trying to get inside?"

"He was going to tell the world what we'd created. I was going to help him do so."

Carter stared at him.

"He realized, too late, that even with all our precautions the technology could be abused. He was determined to stop it."

"And they blew up a whole ferry dock full of people to kill him?"

"Yes."

Joss stood and paced a slow lap around the work room. Bear got up and walked beside her. She studied the two boards again. Then she sat down. The dog sat beside her. "How does it work?"

"As you so accurately described, it sorts through the haystacks of data and finds the needles of threat. Or to be more precise, the tiny fragments that compose the needles of threat. It then identifies people associated with potential mass-casualty events and provides those identities to the appropriate government asset in time for the attacks to be stopped. Most often it provides the numbers to a group called Research, which is an independent entity operating inside the NSA."

"It tells them when and where and they …"

"No," Finch said firmly. "Except on extraordinary occasions, it gives them a number, nothing more. A social security number when possible. Another identifying number when not. A bank account, a telephone number, rarely longitude and latitude – it gives them some way of identifying the person of interest. Nothing more. It's for the human operators to determine the exact nature of the threat and the involvement of the person designated."

"A number."

"Yes."

"They must be _so pissed off_."

"Yes."

"What constitutes an extraordinary occasion?"

"Hijacked missiles inbound on Manhattan. Or any emergency of that magnitude and immediacy. Then, and only then, the Machine directly interacts with the operators for a period of time limited to the time needed to eliminate the immediate threat." He considered. "It is quite rare."

Carter stood up and took another lap around the room. Bear went with her again. This time she paused and looked into the little kitchenette. Then she walked back and sat down again.

The dog gave up and went back to his own bed.

Carter gestured to the boards. "These people. The Mafia dons, the babies. Me. We're not part of any mass-casualty event."

"No. You are all irrelevant to national security."

"Irrelevant."

"The Machine sees everything," Finch reminded her. "So among all the needles of national threat it finds, it also finds warnings of more conventional crimes about to happen. Crimes that the irrelevant individuals are either going to be victims or perpetrators of."

"And those numbers … come to you?"

"Yes."

"And you help them."

"We try."

"The government …"

"Considers them irrelevant. The Machine deletes them every night."

"That's what you call it? The Machine? That's it?"

"I was never one much for naming projects. Particularly super-secret ones."

"Huh." Carter stared at the board of numbers. "Your Machine told you that I was in danger."

"Yes."

"And John came to save me."

"Yes."

"Even though I was doing everything in my power to arrest him."

"Yes."

"And you knew if I did arrest him, your whole game was over."

Finch hesitated. "I had … arrangements in place, in that eventuality."

"Like you did when Donnelly caught him."

"Yes. Less elaborate arrangements, at that point, but similar."

The detective considered all of this new information for a very long time. Finch sipped his tea and waited. He was good at waiting.

"It can't catch every crime," Carter realized. "Only the ones that are premeditated."

"Premeditated and prepared for in some electronic manner," Harold confirmed. "But given the profusion of electronic devices these days, that is becoming a larger portion of those crimes."

"Buy quicklime at ten different stores in the city," she mused. "Even if you pay cash, the store inventories catch it."

"And the surveillance cameras identify you as traveling to those ten stores."

"And it only gives you the number, even though it knows that person bought quicklime at ten different stores?"

"Only the number," Finch confirmed. "That's how it has to be. Anything more would be risking … disaster."

"You know," she finally said, "you're going to end up dead if you keep doing this."

"We are aware of that very real possibility, yes."

"I may not always be able to help you."

"Your first duty, Detective, is to your son, and your second is to protecting innocent lives. I assure you that John and I are fully aware of those responsibilities. We would never ask you to diverge from them."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because there are innocent lives at stake."

Carter shook her head. "No. I can see why John does it. He thinks he has a debt to pay. But you? I have no idea why you'd risk your life like this."

Finch looked toward the gold-colored window. It was splashed with red now as the sun set. "I wanted to ignore them," he confessed quietly. "Nathan was the one who said we should try to save them. He tried. Alone. And when he …" He stopped. "I suppose it's my crusade. My beach full of starfish."

Joss straightened. "It tried to tell you, didn't it? The Machine? It knew they were going to kill him."

He sighed heavily. Then he pushed the cat off his lap, stood up and walked to the board. "So now you know, Detective. It's for you now to decide what you'll do with that information. You can continue to help us, and we'll do everything we can to protect you. You can walk away from this work, and we'll still do everything we can to protect you, but without your direct knowledge. You can let your son go to work with Will Ingram, with Christine, fully aware that there's some remote chance he'll someday be endangered by that association. Or we can divert his attention to some equally enticing but far less potentially hazardous endeavor. The choice is entirely yours. Simply tell me what you want, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen."

Carter walked over to stand next to him at the board. The board of lost chances, she noted. She doubted he spent much time enjoying his board of success, but this one, with the fading newspaper clippings and the curling photos – this one haunted him. He never forgot these people he had failed to save.

A few of them were cases Carter had caught, when it was too late to do them any good. But there were others, on that other board, little blubs of color that stood for cases she would never have to work because John and his partner had saved the victims or stopped the perpetrators.

None of what Finch had told her was really news. The details, sure, but she'd had a pretty good idea about the outline. And the danger.

Finch had let her follow him here because he trusted her. And because he wanted her to know exactly what she was letting Taylor get involved in.

"If anything happens to me …"

"To quote Valjean," Finch answered immediately, "your child will want for nothing. That was arranged long ago."

He didn't just mean financially, Carter knew at once, though that was part of it. He or John would see to it, personally, that Taylor had everything he needed. "I … thank you."

"Rather the least we could do, under the circumstances." Finch crossed his arms over his chest. "I know it's a great deal to take in, Detective Carter. You can certainly take some time to think it over."

Carter crossed her own arms and moved just a little, until their shoulders touched as they stood in front of the board. "All things considered, Harold," she answered, "I think you might as well start calling me Joss."

**The End**

* * *

That's all for now. I hope you enjoyed it. The next Chaos story is already in the works. Now go outside and get some sunshine!

And on a more serious note - my "get paid for writing" alter ego, **Lyra Marlowe**, has contributed a story to the upcoming Romance Diva's charity anthology, **"Love Is ..."** The anthology is a collection of 40 stories, including some by very well-known authors, and all proceeds will go to support "Reach Out and Read". The collection will be released on Tuesday, August 5. More info on **Facebook, LoveIsRomanceAnthology.** Please give it a look!


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